Destinies Entwined
by Lystan
Summary: Based before the Fall of Erebor, Thorin meets a kindred spirit through the machinations of his meddling sister. Though their hearts burn with the same passion, they cannot know where their paths will carry them. Thorin x OC.
1. Chapter 1 - First Impressions

**_AN: I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked.  
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**First Impressions**

Thorín, son of Thraín, son of Thror, did not stomp. He was not some petulant child to throw tantrums when he did not get his way, or to huff out his breath when he was frustrated with a situation. No, the Crown Prince Under The Mountain was better than that, trained in the ways of etiquette and poise since birth and, while there were things that could be said about him – from his dark demeanor and stoic personality down to his lack of close friends – none could say he was unmannered enough to do such a petty thing as stomp through the halls of Erebor.

Thorín _stormed_.

In fact, he thought to himself as he did just that on his way from the meeting hall his father and grandfather had sent him forcibly from, he was a storm in his own right. When his mood was aggrieved and anger threatened to boil his blood, there was no force in Middle Earth that could calm him. His approach could be sensed, much the same as a coming gale – a drop in temperature, a strengthening wind and perhaps an overall foreboding that would raise the hairs on the backs of necks anywhere his path led.

So, as the Prince stormed past nobles and commoners alike, many averted their gazes and murmured a prayer to Mahal that their home withstand the tempest that was the Crown Prince Thorín, second of his name and he, despite his foul mood and barely contained temper, prayed with them.

As he ascended to the royal levels, his rage simmered with the exertion of climbing from the lowest floors to the highest. The monotonous activity of taking stair after stair allowed him a reprieve from the thoughts in his head and, while he did not _stomp_, his heavy footfalls quieted significantly after the first several stories were cleared. His breathing became heavier, warping the pressure in his chest from frustration to physical action and it was a relief. He climbed on, fury turned to mere annoyance with every landing he passed and, when he had reached the last one, he rested heavily against the wall, tipping his head up to gather as much air as he could into his lungs.

He waited, regaining both wits and breath, replaying his grievances for the hundredth time since he left the meeting hall. He had been "excused" yet again from the latter part of the meeting and it infuriated him. He had been hounded and pushed to attend every meeting to it's fullest, never allowed to shirk or beg off unless sickness had taken him and that had only happened once in his sixty-three years. Now, however, he was not wished there with more and more frequency and it unnerved him, to say the least. While he had reacted instantly with anger, it was worry that nagged at his heart. A deep-seeded concern that he did not understand or wish to explore.

He hefted himself off the wall and headed toward his sister's chambers, the given "reason" for his exclusion from the rest of the council meeting in the first place. His sister, the Princess Dís, would reach the ripe age of eighteen in a few short days and an opulent feast in honor of her birth date was scheduled to occur as it was every year. As the youngest and only female child of the line of Durín, she was especially cherished by the residents of the mountain. Her birth had been a wonderful blessing and, though his mother had died in the process, Dís was held with the highest regards by all. His father had informed him that his sweet sister had requested his presence and firmly suggested he take his leave to spend some time with his youngest sibling.

"She can wait until the council has adjourned," he'd said, brushing off the sudden invitation with little thought. They were discussing important matters, the business of running a kingdom and he knew his place was at his father's and grandfather's sides.

Thror had slammed his fist on the obsidian council table, roaring in a display that shocked every dwarrow present, "You will do as your father bids, Thorín!"

The prince was quelled, his embarrassment creeping over the edges of his beard as his grandsire glowered at him from the head of the table. With intense, narrowed eyes, the aged king continued with a low voice, "Do not disrespect your elders in my presence. This council can, and will, carry on without you, despite your belief otherwise."

At that, Thraín had stood and Thorín had followed suit, his father's hand on his elbow leading him from the room as if he could not manage the task himself. Once past the threshold the heavy doors had been closed at his back and he had fumed all the way to the staircase. Going over the scene in his mind again he still understood it little but was wont to nurse his pride after such a blow and did not wish to wound it further by disobeying.

As he turned the ornate handle on his sister's door, he shook his head. There was no answer to his quandary in solitude and so he strode through the door without knocking or being announced. The only one in the room was his younger brother, Frerín, who currently lounged across the whole of a plush couch that sat before the fire. His tow-headed sibling raised his eyebrows in his own surprise, barely moving to acknowledge him, "Welcome, brother. You seem...cheerful."

Thorín had no patience, "I was told my presence was required here."

Frerín gazed at him through the corners of his narrowed eyes, "And this...requirement?...has put you in such a mood?"

Thorín sighed, running a hand through onyx hair, "Being _ejected_ from a council meeting has me...most perturbed, by all accounts."

The blonde grinned lazily, tucking a hand behind his head, "More alike vexed, from the look on your face, _nadad_."

Thorín glared at his brother, not wishing to sally words with him any further. Before Thorín could move to seat himself, Frerín jumped lithely from his place draped across the couch and wrapped his brother in a fierce embrace. It took a moment for Thorín to respond in kind, as he was not much for physical affection, but the warmth of his brothers arms melted his icy facade enough to allow the act to continue. Frerín pulled back and slapped Thorín heartily on the back, "It is good to see you, brother. Our meetings have become few and far between."

Thorín nodded sadly, his eyes cast down as he acknowledged that fact. He knew in his heart that he should spend more time with his siblings but there were not enough hours in the day for what he wished and wanted. His days were filled with councils and matters of state, endless grooming for the throne that was his to be his within his lifetime some how, while his younger siblings had leisure to complete studies on whatever they wished and more. He knew Dís had begun training on horseback recently, though he'd never been able to make time to visit the stables and see her at it. Frerín had completed his combat training over a month ago, on his thirtieth name-day and Thorín had yet to congratulate him on the high honors he'd received, despite that he had been at the ceremony himself.

His heart was heavy and it must have reflected in his eyes when he finally gave his brother the praise he had been unable to for so long, "It was my greatest pride, brother, seeing you become a warrior."

Frerín's signature smirk, which was as constant as his beard, faltered for a moment before returning with some force, "Took you long enough."

The comment brought a weak smile to Thorín's face and they pounded each other on the back again before Frerín leaned forward with a quizzical look on his face. Thorín watched in confusion as his brother inhaled deeply through his nose and paused, "...did you run here?"

Thorín's eyes rolled of their own accord and he brushed past a smug Frerín without an answer, muttering under his breath. He walked to the chair farthest from the door and sat heavily as the younger continued, "You _are_ allowed to take the lift, you know."

Thorín sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing on his closed eyes simultaneously. The weight on his shoulders slid to his feet and he sunk further into the plush chair, resting his head on its padded back. He grumbled, feeling exhaustion come over him, "Being in the presence of others would not have improved my mood as much as the exercise of venturing here."

With his eyes shut, he was unable to see Frerín's brows furrow at the thought. Frerín turned casually to a side table and poured wine for them both, his look of concern vanished by the time he passed a silver goblet into Thorín's broad hands. Thorín took it with a slightly surprised thanks, tasting it carefully before drinking with a thirst. He exhaled after two mouthfuls slid down his throat and seemed to relax further, his feet stretching before him while he rolled his shoulders lightly to relieve the stress held there.

Frerín claimed the same seat on which he had lounged at Thorín's arrival, opting to sit instead, and watched his older brother unwind. It was a rare thing to see, a resting Thorín, and Frerín tried not to stare in wonder at it. After a draw of his own wine Frerín asked in a much softer tone, "And our company?"

Thorín looked to his brother, brows raised, "Come again?"

Frerín repeated himself, "Our company. Will our company be taxing on your mood, my Prince?"

Thorín could not tell if his brother was jesting and it unnerved him slightly. He thought for a moment, taking another drink before answering, "My brother's company is never a burden to me."

"And what of your sister?"

The loud question alerted the dwarrow to the entrance of their sister, her light hair spilling, damp, against her back and joy spread across her face. Frerín watched as his usually sulky brother broke into a broad, genuine grin of his own and stood to hold his arms open to the dwarfling maid.

She ran to him, a cry of "_Nadad_!" piercing the air and was lifted into his embrace with both parties groaning from the ferocity of it. Frerín smiled fondly on the pair – despite the forty-five years that seperated hem, Dís always had carried a special admiration for her eldest brother that went beyond the respect due a Crown Prince. She wished to be his only pride and joy but, little did she know, she had already claimed that title. Frerín could see it with every conversation, every interaction. She adored him and he, her.

It took not long for the bubbly Dís to turn her affections on her next eldest brother, his embrace just as welcoming and filled with love. She grinned between the two of them, unable to settle her excitement, "I have no guardian today AND I am able to spend time with my brothers! I did not know how this day could exceed perfect!"

Thorín tipped his head, a sly smile creeping onto his lips as he returned to his previous seat, "No guardian? It seems as if you are becoming a lady after all!"

The young maid would have none of his banter and she gave a scowl of disgust as she sat herself heavily before a chair opposite his in an unlady-like way. She haughtily ignored their tittering and smoothed her skirts as she demanded, "I _am_ a lady, and I will thank you to remember it."

Thorín laughed for the first time in a long while. It was loud and clear and honest and his siblings could not refrain from smiling and laughing along with him. Frerín returned to his seat, doing his best to feign boredom, regardless of the grin he wore, "And so, my lovely sister, would you care to share with us why we are here?"

Her blush gave her away but she attempted an air of innocence nonetheless, "Does a Princess of Erebor require a reason to see her brothers?"

Thorín looked to Frerín, amusement and inquiry in his raised brow and the two shared a suspicious look. The blonde Prince retorted, "Aah, another scheme brought to us by our virtuous _nanath_?"

The young girl focused on him with a conciliatory look that may or may not have been condescending in the same instance and Thorín could barely suppress a chuckle. Her tone was soothing, "You have my word, _nadar_, my plotting and schemes have come to an end. You need not fear that I will try to manipulate further for I am done."

Both brothers held wary gazes, Frerín toward his simpering sister and Thorín toward his occupied brother. "What is all this talk of scheming and manipulation?" the elder Prince asked through a smile.

Frerín rolled his eyes even as he took a pull of wine, swallowing before deigning to respond, "Our most considerate sister has, for the last month, taken it upon herself to work a matchmaking betwixt your most esteemed and the noble ladies of the Mountain."

Another low and clear laugh erupted from the Crown Prince, much to his siblings' amusement. Dís glowed, beaming proudly from her seat on the floor at her older brothers even as Frerín made faces at her, pretending to be angry. She was enthralled with Thorín's laughter and felt the need to draw more from him at any expense. She had no time to do so as they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Dís jumped up with eager excitement, "She has arrived! Oh, I cannot wait any longer!"

The brothers looked to one another again as she sped toward the door. The blonde drained his glass and stood to greet the unknown newcomer but his elder did his best to disappear into his seatback, wishing earnestly that he could meld into the shadows, if not the stone wall behind him. He drank hastily, doing his best to look anywhere but the room's entrance. He turned at neither his sister's squeal of delight, which could possibly have been the guests name,nor his brother's shocked laughter and stared stonily into the flames of the fireplace.

What finally drew him from himself was over hearing Frerín's utter lack of decorum, "You wore that dress just for me, did you not?"

Thorín considered scolding his brother for his impropriety when he was beaten to it by their guest, "Oh, of course! Because every wardrobe choice I make is based on the opinion you would hold of me, my Prince."

Honeyed sarcasm dripped from her already velvet voice and Thorín could not resist his admiration of her gall in the face of Frerín's flirting. His brother laughed in response, "Obviously. As it should be."

While it was clear to him he was the only one who had not been previously introduced to their guest he was still content in his shadowed indifference. However, Dís, it seemed, would not allow such a thing. He could hear, hushed though it was, her urging to the additional company, "Come, come! Over here, there is another to meet!"

With a resigned sigh, he set down his now empty cup and forced himself from his seat. As he reluctantly turned to face this new challenge of his patience, he caught sight of his tiny sister dragging an older dwarrowdam hurriedly between the furniture of her sitting room. While the woman had apparent difficulty following the dwarfling, she managed to keep her feet around the obstacles, even if just barely.

Dís bobbed on her toes, her delicate hand entwined with the older dam's and, once the latter had steadied herself, the Princess proudly stated, "Thorín, son of Thraín, please allow me to introduce Thríva Heartweaver."

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_**P.S. - First chapter in a long line of chapters. I've had this rolling around in my head for months so I'm only just getting around to posting this one and it's just to test the waters of interest. R&amp;R peeps! PM me with any questions or suggestions and, if I missed a typo, PLEASE let me know. I'm super self-conscious about those things. :)**_

_**3 Lystan**_


	2. Chapter 2 - Blindsided

**_A/N: For those of you that were thoroughly confused by my random use of Khuzdul terms in the last chapter and were unable to gather from context their meanings, allow me to amend my idiocy.  
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**_nadar: brother_**

**_nadeth: little brother_**

**_nanath: little sister_**

**_-L-_**

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**Blindsided**

Dís bobbed on her toes, her delicate hand entwined with the older dam's and the Princess proudly stated, "Thorín, son of Thraín, allow me to introduce Thríva Heartweaver."

The woman, Thríva, was visibly indignant, "Och, Dís! You cannae just make up a name and use it as a title!"

Dís' smug grin was stolen directly from Frerín, "I am the Princess."

Thríva raised her eyebrow but Dís never faltered, "Besides, it's catchy."

Thorín was stunned, to say the least. Not only had he been unprepared for company, he had been taken completely aback by the woman before him. He could find no singular aspect of her appearance on which to fixate because there was so much that caught his eye and he tried to observe it all while her attentions were elsewhere. He flexed his jaw to ensure his mouth did not hang open.

Thríva rolled her eyes at the young dam and turned as if to face him but, instead, was swept from her feet by Frerín wrapping his arms around from behind her and spinning them both in a fast circle.

"Thríva Heartweaver!" he roared as he did so, over the sound of her startled scream, and set her down to catch her hands before she could retaliate, "Come to work her magic on both head and heart!"

Her oddly shaped face contorted into a tight lipped smirk when she turned on the royal brat, revealing hidden dimples in the centers of appled cheek. She glared playfully at the younger Prince and Thorín knew not what to think of her face; it was round and yet pointed at the same time, its most prominent feature her almond shaped and colored eyes. Dwarves were known for their wide and imposing noses but this dam barely had a nose to speak of. It was there, of course, but it was..._small_. Proportionate but _tiny_, perfectly shaped but _miniscule_ and he felt he could ponder it for hours and still not comprehend its size, nor the way it was a perfect complement to her features.

He could tell by the sharp intake of breath that she was about to unleash a sharp retort but it was skillfully blocked by his brother's false chivalry. Frerín bowed low over her hand as if to place a kiss upon it, never losing contact with her eyes, "How well the lady casts her spells for I find myself... enchanted."

Her lovely eyes displayed her disbelief in another roll which distracted her completely from what Frerín prepared to do.

The sleeves of her gown started at the crest of her shoulder and stopped just below her elbow, leaving her forearm completely exposed to the misbehaving Prince as he ran the flat of his tongue from her knuckles to the edge of decency. Thríva made a noise somewhere between disgust and amusement and squirmed in the laughing Frerín's grasp. Dís laughed as well and slapped her brother in the arm to show her shock and disapproval, as slight as they may be.

The dam finally managed to wrench her hands from her grinning captor and tried for a moment to settle her flawless hair, a wonder of embellishment done in what appeared to be hundreds of tiny braids that culminated into an elegantly high bun at the back of her head while the rest cascaded around her deliciously exposed shoulders in soft waves. Its hue was one he could not honestly say he had seen before this day - a rich brown that reminded him of healthy soil and, surprisingly, the warmed cocoa his late mother had been fond of serving him during the long winters of his childhood. The sudden comparison to his most cherished memory was startling - it had been decades since he had thought of it.

She smoothed her skirts in obvious distress as she turned to greet him. His mouth felt dry as he continued to appraise her, despite his efforts to cease.

Her, thankfully, Dwarven-sized ears were richly decorated, each bearing three silver cuffs connected to the others by a string of topaz and amethyst stones that matched the simple, but alluring, choker at her throat. Her slender neck dipped into a wonderful amount of cleavage that he did his best to avoid but it was still painfully visible in his peripheral view. Her gown did nothing but accentuate her hourglass shape, the curve of it over her hips only adding to the overall ache he felt growing in his stomach.

He swallowed thickly, feeling suddenly very warm. She saved him from his own silence, her previous informal tone and dialect all but vanished, "Your Highness, it is an honor to meet you."

Her curtsey was perfectly executed, her head bent at an exact angle and her eyes at a proper, demure level that did not meet his until she was rising out of it. He was caught by the diamonds of mischief that glittered there, so fascinated by them he almost missed her broguish quip, "And such a handsome name you have, too."

He felt his mouth stretch into an unbidden smile, surprised more than she was that her words had such an effect on him. He had initially observed the similarities between their names but, until she had mentioned it, he had not held another thought for it. The knowledge that it was, even in a vague form, an intimacy they alone shared stoked the fires of his pride and with it he felt lightheaded.

Before he could stop himself, he held out his hand for hers, which she graciously accepted. When this was accomplished, his free hand crossed suddenly between them to the front pocket of the younger Prince, who had come to stand near them, and stole the kerchief from it with a flourish. He also managed to flick it against Frerín's cheek in exasperation, all while pinning his brother with a purposeful scowl before he wiped her arm with it. She nodded her head in appreciation and he realized she was unable to blush further because she already had been through the entire introduction.

When her arm was cleaned, he pressed his lips to her fingers in what was meant to be a perfunctory act but he met her eyes and somehow it became something else entirely. He ended it as quickly as he could, feeling his lips burn with the contact. He kept a polite smile while he mentally cursed his brother for his embarrassing display. Frerín seemed to intuitively know how to make an awkward situation worse. Thorín felt an itch in his throat and he decided to refill his wine while he had the opportunity.

Before he released her fingertips, he acknowledged her by way of murmuring her name and turned quickly to the side table, looking for a way to distract himself from the situation. More wine seemed necessary, at this point, and he tucked a few rolls into the pocket of his overcoat as a habit. The cooling heat of his face was enough to make him plot a pummeling for Frerín once he managed to get him alone but his dour thoughts were frequently interrupted by the activity and conversation that had continued on behind him.

Dís and Thríva had seated themselves already, the Princess returned to the floor in front of the now occupied chair that held their guest. Frerín had draped himself across the couch and was chuckling at something one of them had said. Thríva busied herself with a basket full of items on her lap, and while Dís chatted idly on she sorted through what appeared to be glass bottles and brushes of different sizes. After a moment she settled on a wide, bristled brush and a vial partially filled with an amber liquid. These she set on a small table near her and gestured with her finger for Dís to turn around and settle.

Thorín regained his previous seat with his refreshments and leaned back to watch. As he was taking a drink, his brother craned his head from his prostrate position to gaze at him the wrong way up, an idiotic grin plastered on his face, "I would venture a guess that this is why we are here, eh?"

Thorín still felt the urge to bludgeon his stupid head but it was curbed by Frerín's audacious attitude. He twisted the smile he felt tugging at his lips into a disapproving scowl and twitched an eyebrow at him, leaving the question unanswered.

He needn't bother, though, as Dís felt it necessary to answer for herself, "It precisely is, _nadar_. My party is in two days and I knew I would have plenty of time to visit with you both while Thríva styles my hair."

The dam behind her played at offense, pausing in her careful brushing to peer around Dís' head, "Has my company, then, become so tiring in your eyes, my lady?"

The Princess giggled, "It has been long since my brothers were with me, dear. I know you had met Frerín last time..."

To which the bespoken party decided to chime in, with a wink, "And what a memorable time that was."

Thríva stuck her tongue out at the Prince, eliciting another chuckle, as Dís continued, "And I thought often, after that day, how much fun would be had if Thorín could join us as well!"

Thorín tried to hide his disagreement with her opinion of him in the direct line of her adoring smile, the corner of his mouth imitating a small smile before he covered it with the rim of his goblet. He did not drink, only held the liquid to his lips to disguise his discomfort. He knew he was far from the first on any dwarrow's invitation list, if it were organized by interest or mirth-making. He loved his sister but he was sure she held him higher in esteem than he truly deserved.

Unfortunately, his brother decided to put voice to the thoughts he had held in reserve, "Aah, _nanath_, I fear you've invited the wrong dwarf!"

Thorín lowered his glass, licking the wine from his mustache, and turned his unamused stare to the cretin on the sofa. Frerín's head hung off the cushion, now, and his unruly hair drug along the ground unnoticed with every movement he made. Even upside-down, his impishness was apparent and he did not balk at Thorín's evil glowering, "We all know the Crown Prince wouldn't know how to have fun if it came up and bit him in the arse."

Frerín had no time to dodge the roll that struck him between the eyes, his indignant squawk of distress as he rolled from his perch echoing out from beneath the furniture. Thríva and Dís could barely maintain their seats, both women covering their open mouths with hands that did nothing to stifle their laughter.

Thorín was completely prepared for the return volley, catching the baked good in his free hand without needing to pause the drink he was taking and bounced it off Frerín's head again before the dwarf could even lift himself from between the table and sofa, to which the Prince fell back dramatically. This caused another bout of cackling from the women and Thorín allowed himself to grin, his mouth well hidden behind the silver cup.

When the disheveled Prince popped up, smirk in place, Thorín assumed an almost concerned facade, "What was it you were saying, _nadeth_?"

The veiled insult wasn't lost on Frerín but neither was his humor. He beseeched the still sniggering women, "My lady-protectors! Can you not see I am besieged by evil?"

Dís continued laughing, unaffected, "Fight on, dear brother! The line of Durin cannot give in!"

Frerín crawled to them, faking a leg wound to amuse them further, and reached out to Thríva, "Fair dam, I beg of you! A kiss to revive me, lest I fall in battle!"

Thríva held a hand to her chest to catch her breath and shook her head, unable to speak a word at the Prince's begging. She exhaled slowly, calming herself, "If that were a real fight, Highness, I would worry for our race."

Frerín scoffed, no longer so wounded as to crawl, "It was as fierce a battle as had ever been fought, my dear lady!"

Thorín snorted, hardly able to stop himself, "Yes, The Battle of the Bakery! How nobly your tomb will read, 'Here lies Frerín, son of Thraín - killed by biscuits."

At that, Dís and Frerín could no longer contain their laughter and both went rolling, much to the stylist's displeasure. She 'tsk'ed and scolded both of his younger siblings for their raucous behavior and it effecting her work. Following a few giggled apologies, Thríva narrowed her eyes and took up her brush again, frowning at the offenders in sequence. Thorín lowered his cup at last, nearly eager for his turn to meet her eyes, surprised at the sudden flutter in his heart.

They locked gazes and, for only a brief moment, it seemed that the world held it's breath. The diamonds in her eyes sparkled, her frown disappeared as she beheld him and he felt a spear of fire pierce through the very fabric of his soul. Then she looked down and he watched a blush creep over the crest of her petite nose, spreading quickly to her cheeks even as she focused on the back of Dís' head. He exhaled - the world had not stopped turning, he had merely run out of air. He drank deeply, feeling quite ashamed of himself, berating the heartbeat he felt in his throat.

_I am a fool._

For a long while, he steeped in the tension he had created. He dared not look to her again, determined to gain control over himself before the others noticed and his folly be brought to light by his brother or, Mahal forbid, the woman herself. Though time passed and conversation moved through several subjects, he found there wasn't enough wine to quench his shame and, when he made to excuse himself to fetch more, he was waved off by his sister who ordered one of the guards to bring another decanter. Escape plan squelched, he was left with nothing to do but stare at his silver glass and trace the delicate filigree engraved in its sides until another distraction would suit his needs.

His sister and brother held no notice of his plight and, for all that could be said about her, Thríva seemed as unaffected as the other two. Thorín, despite his adamant wish, found himself sneaking glances at her as she worked. Only one side of her mouth lifted, a constant shrug and a semi-permanent cherub-pout of her lips seemed to be her usual appearance. Each time his eyes betrayed his control, they caught a new sight of her, as she listened intently to a re-telling of an old story by Frerín or as she laughed softly at a small joke or riddle from Dís. He found the crease in her cheek endearing, the light in her eyes compelling and the deft movement of her hands throughout admirable.

He was increasingly fascinated at the dexterity of her fingers as she plied her trade, weaving the strands of hair from the dampened mess it had started from into an impressive tapestry of plaits. Though he could not see it in its entirety from his seat, even partially done, his sister looked becoming in the style she was creating. He never thought he would find himself so intrigued by something as common as braiding.

It was then that he discovered himself staring and averted his gaze just as Thríva reached for a small toothed comb from her basket. He felt the warmth of her eyes on him as he tore a roll from his pocket to pieces in his idleness. His heart leapt into his throat when her next question was directed at him, "And so, Prince Thorín, what studies do you employ in your spare time?"

He could not breathe, let alone think to answer, but Frerín felt the need to answer for him, "I think the far better question would be, 'When do you have spare time?'"

Thorín found a laugh escape him, "I fear I find it difficult to answer either of those questions, my Lady."

He could hear her embarrassment, "Thríva, please, your grace."

Frerín had stood to refill his own wine and, having found the vessel still barren, turned his attentions back to his brother with much exageration, "Yes, _Thorín_, formalities are _so_ tedious."

Thorín did not miss the look that Thríva shot at the unobservant Prince and came to her defense, "Not nearly as tedious as you regaling us with the time you fell from your horse. Will you never find another antidote, brother? Or must some other slight tragedy befall you before we are spared your abhorrent story-telling?"

Frerín was unfazed, "If slight tragedy is what interests my listeners, than I shall speak only of your skill at the harp, _nadar_."

Thorín did laugh softly at this - it was an old joke between them. Frerín was an excellent horseman and the only time he had been unmounted was due to an unseen snake that had startled his steed into bucking him. Thorín had been with him that day and had carried Frerín to the healers with a broken arm and several ribs. Their father had not been pleased. Thorín, on the other hand, was a skillful harpist and, though he was loathe to admit it due to his father's shaming of the talent, sang wonderfully with or without accompaniment. They jested as such because they found pride in each others accomplishments no matter how small, despite the disapproval of their father.

"So, you play the harp...Thorín?"

He had nearly forgotten the original question and, at the sound of his name on her tongue, he snapped back to his introverted self, "I have been known to do so, yes."

His fingers fumbled around the filigree, desperate to have her attentions off him and Frerín swept in to save him from himself, yet again, "Not by any outside the family, mind you. It's been somewhat of a treasured family secret. Not like Dís' harping - everyone has had a little of that."

With a wink in the lady's direction, Frerín roosted himself on the arm of Thorín's chair and whispered, beneath the sound of Dís' offended reaction, "You'll tarnish the silver, fussing like that."

Thorín set the cup down in haste but perhaps too quickly, for the sound of it hitting the marble table top was much louder than expected and the titters from the women opposite them ceased. He sent his brother a perturbed look, to which Frerín resumed loudly, "And what has that cup ever done to you?"

Now they were all looking at him and he quelled the urge to punch his brother in the kidney. Dís asked, "Thorín? Are you well, brother?"

Thorín closed his eyes and Frerín spoke for him once again, "I think this wine is far stronger than we are used to, dear _naneth_. If there is one thing Elves are good for, it is a strong wine."

He stood, setting his matching silver next to Thorín's and addressed him, "Perhaps we should investigate what is taking that guard so long with our replacement, eh, brother?"

Thorín realized what Frerín was doing and he had never found himself more grateful. He nodded and rose from his seat, bid the ladies they would return shortly and exited, his brother in tow. Once the were out of ear-shot, he exhaled heavily, "Durin's beard."

Frerín steered them toward the outer walls, seeming not to notice his brother's relief, "Pent up like a caged Warg in there, you were."

Thorín grunted in response, trudging along because he was only just regaining the ability to think clearly but stopped dead at his brother's next inquiry.

"So, when will you ask her to court you?"

* * *

_**Now that you've looked at it, please tell me what you think! No loitering unless you buy something, people. R&amp;R! -L-  
**_


	3. Chapter 3 - Of Brothers and Fathers

**_A/N: I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

* * *

**Of Brothers and Fathers**

"So, when will you ask her to court you?"

Thorín froze in his steps, shuffling slowly in shock to face his brother, "Come again?"

"Thríva." Frerín stated, very casually coming to stand before him, "To court. When."

Thorín's confusion was debilitating, a mask of what appeared to be anger shrouding the disbelief on his face, and for a half minute he could do nothing but grasp at the air and move his mouth as if to speak, "I...you...think I should..._court_ her?"

Frerín had been amused to watch his brother, normally so eloquent, gape helplessly at his question but the response he received was less than gratifying. Before he could do more than roll his eyes, Thorín regained some of his faculties and began gesturing with his arms as he turned and walked away, "Have you gone _soft in the head_?! What kind of question do you ask of me?"

"The kind of question," Frerín endeavored to catch up with his long strides, "a loving sibling would ask in concern for one who was so _obviously_ taken with her!"

Thorín refused to look at him but it was clear they were not in agreement. Frerín would not be ignored, though keeping pace with him was quite a task, "It is a simple question."

Thorín growled, quickening his step, "It is a ridiculous question."

Frerín nearly skipped in his glee, "Ridiculously simple."

At this, Thorín did pause, and turned to his brother in anger, a thick finger pointed into his brother's chest, "And one you are in no position to ask!"

Frerín sighed, his face a pure mix of humor and exasperation, chiding in his tone, "_Nadar_..."

"Do not _'nadar'_ me, Frerín!" Each word was punctuated with a jab of his finger, his tone one of icy warning. Thorín exhaled sharply and dropped his hand, only to bring it up again as if to slap him, though he did not, "And cease this act of superior knowledge! It is insulting."

Frerín stopped his brother from turning away with great difficulty and was nearly drug off in the process, "Brother, brother!"

His hands fisted in the fur lapels of Thorín's overcoat, he managed it finally and the Princes faced each other with grave looks. Frerín's tone was apologetic, "I did not mean to offend you, Thorín."

Thorín only met his gaze in suspicion. When he remained silent, the younger continued. "I only asked because I have never seen you affected thusly, by dwarrow or dam. I can see you are upset by her company, brother, and if it is not due to an attraction then explain why she has angered you so!"

Thorín opened his mouth several times during his brother's speech to interrupt but at its final conclusion, he found himself at a loss for words. He scowled at the floor, instead. After a moment of consideration, he admitted in a quiet voice, "I am not...angry."

Frerín worked his head around, trying to meet his brother's reluctant eyes, "It _is_ attraction, then?"

Thorín's palm connected with the back of his brother's head and the two grappled furiously for a few moments. Luckily for them, no guards were watching or they may have been urgently separated. In the end, Frerín was caught with his arm twisted behind him and, all while laughing, cried out, "Give! I give!"

Thorín released him, more annoyed than ever and no less confused. He would not admit attraction to himself, let alone out loud to his untrustworthy brother. He knew Frerín felt that he had won the argument, even though he had been overpowered but knew not the words to dissuade him otherwise.

Frerín panted, his hand on his knee as he rubbed his side, "Aah...why the ribs, brother? Always the ribs..."

Thorín began to feel apologetic and shook his head as he watched his brother try to straighten himself, "Because it has always been your weak spot."

The younger gave a derisive snort, "This, coming from one who has no weak spot?"

With a heavy sigh, the elder replied, "Of course, I have. You know that."

"Aye. I do." Frerín stood, holding his side and a smirk, "And I would venture to guess her name is Thríva!"

Frerín bent double again from the force of his brother's blow and his ears rang while he watched the floor spin beneath his feet. When he could focus again, it was on the image of his brother shaking his hand in a false display of pain. Thorín stated smugly, with a cold mirth in his eyes, "_Definitely_. Going soft in the head."

With a sudden flurry of range, Frerín growled, "More alike soft in the hand!"

Frerín dove into his brother and Thorín allowed himself to be driven into the wall behind them. Thorín immediately brought his elbow down on Frerín's back, effectually freeing himself. Once out of his brother's arms, he backed up far enough to slap the cringing figure across the back of his head, again, "Bad!"

Frerín pulled the feet from beneath his oppressor, who was not fast enough to escape and, this time, guards were required to cease their quarrel. Frerín's laughter could be heard almost anywhere in the mountain.

* * *

Later that evening, Thorín entered his father's private study, his ribs bruised and his jaw sore but no worse in appearance and was glad there was nothing to alert his father to the incident in the hallway. Thraín was busy pouring himself a hefty glass of brandy, a favorite of his after a long day of council meetings and diplomatic bickering. Thorín remembered all too well that morning, when his father had escorted him out of the council meeting and he hoped, more than expected, that this evening would pass quickly and quietly.

It had been long years since he had enjoyed the company of his father or, rather, felt that his father had enjoyed _his_ presence. He had grown into his father's shadow of impressiveness, almost to surpass it, but it seemed to matter little to the dwarf he held in his highest regard. When that realization had come to him, nothing had crushed Thorín more and he had distanced himself, not only from his father but his siblings as well, if only to alleviate further pain.

At Thraín's behest, they sat across from one another before the great fire and Thorín even accepted a smaller portion of the treasured liquor from his father, which seemed a good omen to him. He had never partaken with his father, beyond occasionally during family meals, but those had ceased after the birth of Dís and this was something of an honor. The miracle that had been bestowed upon him must have been monstrous to receive so much attention after so long an interval. He did his best not to dwell on such thoughts, lest his mood turn sour and he say something he would later regret. Instead, he tried to surmise the reason his father wished for his company.

As they both drank, Thraín watched his eldest son through his good eye and noticed the trepidation within him. It wounded him to see his own blood, his first-born, his pride, all but cowering from the presence of his father. He was far from the role-model he had expected himself to be at his son's birth and the great stresses and responsibilities of being heir to his own father had robbed him of their once amiable relationship, making further difficult the task of atonement for that mighty flaw. He wished he could impart upon Thorín the great sense of pride and love that he harbored for his eldest but knew it was not within his power to communicate such things to the lad. Fathers were many things in their lifetimes but more than a mentor, he felt he could not any longer be.

Without preamble, he stated, "Heard you fought with your brother today."

Thorín's face lost all color but there was little other reaction while he stared into his glass. His response was carefully spoken, "Aye."

It was clear that Thorín had wished to keep that from his knowledge. Thraín wondered if he was waiting for Mahal's hammer itself to come down on him and he did what he could to keep a straight face while he voiced his opinion, "His head full of air again?"

The Prince's mouth twitched as he pondered his drink but he relaxed at the question, "I checked. Seems fine now."

Thraín laughed which seemed to surprise Thorín, for he jumped at the sound. It made Thraín's heart sink further, knowing that mirth was so strange a thing to come from him. They sat in silence for a few moments, Thorín staring into his cup again, before the elder could think of something to fill the void, "Always a rotten brat, your brother. I am astounded the two of you have had so few quarrels over his belligerence!"

Storm-colored eyes slid toward Thraín for only a brief moment before returning to the swirling liquid, "So few that you knew about, perhaps."

Thraín smiled into his brandy, his heart warming as his son began to open up. He endeavored to stop his amusement at the thought of his son's acting so like brothers but to do so would only bring his own disappointment in having never had a male sibling of his own. "It does some good for him to be put in his place...every now and again."

The corners of the young Prince's lips threatened to rise once more, and Thraín watched with interest as his son fought against it. More well chosen words came forth at a hesitant pace, "I had presumed your feelings on the matter would be less than favorable. I am glad, then, that we have not angered you with our silly quarrel."

Thorín was further impressed by his father's laughing reply, "Aye, it should, but there is a way about children to squabble. If only out of love."

The air seemed to lighten and they drank again, the silence stretching in an agreeable comfort. Thraín ventured to ask further of his day, implying through his subject choice that they would both remain silent on the way their last meeting had ended, and Thorín decided to describe the small gathering he had attended in Dís' chambers. He spoke nothing of Thríva or her effect upon him, not wishing to relive those emotions any time in the near future. Perhaps, if he had his way, the instance would be forgotten and he would learn from his mistake.

Thraín enjoyed his retelling of the events and chortled happily at his description of the epic Battle of the Bakery. "Aye, see? An insufferable twat, that Frerín! I fear you were too soft on him, with that bread roll!"

Thorín found himself laughing as well, "One makes due with the weapon at hand, or so I was once taught."

Thraín's smile could not have been wider or fonder, "Aah, so you _do_ remember our lessons together!"

His heir feigned indigence, "How could I ever forget? The _one_ time I was able to disarm the Great Thraín in combat, only to be defeated by an axe handle!"

Neither of them could help laughing at the memory and, as Thorín caught his breath, his chest swelled at the camaraderie he held with his father in that moment. It was immediately deflated with the pain he found in his father's eyes and concern began to build in its place.

Thraín sighed and said, "Aah, I regret having so little a part in your brother's training. Perhaps I could have knocked some of that impishness out of him before his head became too big for his shoulders."

Thorín tried to console him and still keep the humor light, "Nay, _adâd_. There was naught you could do to help that!"

There was no agreement in the resulting frown and Thorín was compelled to continue, "Frerín has always and will always be willful and impetuous. It runs through all of us...to different degrees. You cannot take blame for something that is in his nature."

Thraín waved his free hand impatiently and it became clear to his son that he did not understand the true reason for his father's distress. Thorín turned to his drink, unable to discover the answer in his father's gaze, and the quiet grew.

"How fares your sister?"

Thorín nodded, swallowing his recent mouthful to reply, "Quite well, actually. She was overjoyed to have the company, it would seem."

His statement made little improvement on his father's turn of mood, though Thraín bobbed his head and murmured, "That is good. That is...very good."

Thorín, perhaps emboldened by the brandy, dared to ask, "_Adâd_, what troubles you so suddenly?"

Thraín's discomfort was apparent in his halted response, "It...tears my heart to have my children so distant from me. They live their lives as if their father has no care for them and I have none to blame but myself. I swear to Malhal, _amè dashat_, nothing has been so easy as I had desired. Especially since your mother's passing."

Both men felt the pain of that statement but the elder continued with heavy words, "You were ne'er meant to grow up so quickly. I tried to raise you differently. I had...I wanted you all to have a better childhood than I."

Thorín could not take his eyes away. He could only listen as his father spoke on, "Your grandfather groomed you for the throne nearly from birth but it was against our requests, Thorín. I railed against the same pressures falling upon your shoulders that sit so heavy on mine but...ah, me, it had little to do with what I wanted and more to do with what the King thought best. For the future of our kingdom!"

With a heavy sigh, Thraín paused to drink and a full minute passed before he spoke again, "We had made it clear to Thror that you would not attend council until after your seventieth nameday but...without your _amâd_...I was at such a loss. I could not protect you from the King's wishes any further and the realities of our situation were forced upon us all. You were not meant to face such responsibility so early on. And with the birth of your sister..."

The silence was thick between them but the sentence did not need to be finished. They both knew too well what joy and tragedy had followed his sister's coming into the world. There was little to say on the subject after that. The spitting of the fire was all that was heard for some time. It took his father speaking for Thorín to realize how close the man was to tears, "By all the Valar, I could barely look at her..."

Thorín knew he meant Dís but kept his tongue.

"It weren't her fault, the wee babe, but it broke my heart no less. How could I blame anything so...truly...good? I was...not myself. She was gone...and my daughter...I could not lift my arms to hold her. _Amè amrâl_..._amè mudtel_..."

Thorín found it difficult to watch his father, who had never seemed so broken as he did now. Tears dripped from his nose, down his beard and onto his crimson overcoat and with each drop, Thorín's throat clenched a little more. He had always looked to his father for his own strength and knowing that he had struggled through such pain for so long was a blow he was only beginning to understand.

"Why do you tell me this, now?"

Thraín had almost missed his son's words, so wrapped in his own memories he was and so gentle the inquiry. Thorín could see how weary his father had become, whether from the efforts of the day or the efforts of what he had just finished speaking, he would not know.

Heavy moments passed before Thraín was able to reply, "Because, my son, I fear that I see too much of myself in you. I want you to live a life you can look back on and be proud of. Take more time for yourself, for I know you do not as you should. Take up your training again. Find a dam, enjoy the company of friends. Take the road you were set upon by Mahal but forget not the beauty of the country you travel through. Mahal be blessed that you do not follow in the footsteps and regrets of your father."

Thorín was quite unsure he understood his father's words. He assured his father he would begin his training again, if that was his wish, and it seemed to appease the older man. Noticing the state his father was in, Thorín thought it best that he let him rest and stood to go. He made his leave with kind words and hope to have another evening with him, but there was only a muttered acknowledgment. His head swam with all that had taken place as he exited but was stopped, "And, Thorín?"

He turned back, nearly through the door, to gaze at his father, "Yes, _adâd_?"

The bulk of his father's form rested heavily against the chair, face silhouetted by the fire, "Do not shy away from your family, _mamarlûn_. They are all you have."

* * *

**_Translations:_**

**_adâd - father_**

_**amâd - mother**  
_

**_amè dashat - my son  
_**

**_amè amrâl - my love  
_**

**_amè mudtel - my heart  
_**

_**mamarlûn - man who is loved**  
_

_**Show how much you love it - leave a review!**_

_**-L-**_


	4. Chapter 4 - The Gamut

**_A/N: I sincerely apologize for my lateness in updating - this chapter was a b*tch to write. What started out as an incredible idea that was bursting out of my brain and onto paper became one of the hardest visual images I've ever had to describe._**

**_As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

* * *

**The Gamut**

Thorín felt mildly nauseous as he stepped into the large cavern that held the training grounds. It had been a decade since he had even set foot in these halls and, though he was more skilled than some of their seasoned warriors, he worried that, beyond his mind visiting this place in his memory, he was ill prepared to rejoin their ranks so easily. To give himself some form of credit, he could admit he _had_ been more nervous on his first day of training, though time may have affected by how much.

He came to stand alone by the edge of the sand pits containing several hundred fighting dwarves and took in the sights and sounds of it anew. The ringing of metal filled the air as sword and axe danced in varied pairs and groups as far as the eye could see. Arrows flew from a hundred feet away to land firmly in their straw targets, only a few missing badly and were followed by the jeering laughter of the archers who had struck true. He felt a strong sense of pride, watching his brothers-in-arms, his kinfolk and blood, train as he had so many years ago, all for the sake of protecting their realm. It strengthened his resolve and his stomach had settled by the time he had made his way to the center ring.

Dwarrow of all shape and stature hailed him as he passed, those who were closest bowing in respect and moving solemnly out of his path before returning to their previous task. None ventured to converse with him till he found himself surrounded by a large group of warriors with whom he had gone through his fledgling training. Succinctly, they were the only Khazad he felt the honor of calling 'friend' within the whole of the mountain. For the first time in a thousand moons, Thorín was at ease in his environment.

Twenty or so dwarves were idling around the central weapons racks, not training yet but also not using any of the available weapons or even paying them any mind, for that matter. It was simply a place they met daily before their efforts began as they were all accomplished enough to own their own gear and did not need to use what was offered. The dwarrow did not notice him as one but each turned toward him in their own time, smiling with harsh but well-meant ribbing, the loudest of which came from his former training partner, Dwalin, son of Fùndin. He shouldered his muscular form to the front of the crowd, his bushy hair combed, styled and shaved into a dark, wild mowhawk. "Thorín, you bloody git! Where in the name of Durin's beard have you been?!"

Thorín grinned, his eyes reflecting the joy he felt at seeing his old friend again. A handful of his company laughed at the brazen address of Dwalin to his Prince but the rest hollered in agreement as the two embraced fiercely. Pounding on each others backs, they pulled away to clasp forearms and beam maniacally. Thorín was quick to respond, loud enough to be heard by everyone around them, "Learning how to rule you lot of stone-headed jackasses!"

With cheers, he was welcomed into the fold without so much as a breath of hesitation, despite the interim of their companionship. His heart glowed as he beheld his class mates, all strong of arm and sure of loyalty to him above any other. It could be far from said that they would not raise arms for their King if it were requested but he knew they would never waver in their support of him, either, and it made the Prince swell with a brotherly love.

Dwalin quieted them with a raised hand, his tone turning serious, "So, Thorín, what brings you to us today?"

Thorín bowed slightly in humility, "I have decided to take up my training again and come to ask aid of the highest among our warriors."

Dawlin smirked, looking around him as he spoke, "See there, lads? Even our Prince knows the best when he sees it!"

After their laughter quieted slightly another voice, filled with malice, became clear over the rest, "Too bad he's askin' the wrong dwarf!"

Both Thorín and Dwalin turned to the newcomer - a shirtless dwarrow with a head of frizzy orange hair, covered from the neck down in intricate tattoos and armed with an iron war-maddock the size of a dwarfling. He was flanked by two, equally impressive dwarves that matched the other almost exactly in armor and weapons, if not in bearing and feature. Thorín addressed him with a reserved, if not forced, civility, "Tormûnd, you seem well."

The stout warrior stopped less than an inch away from the Prince, the toes of their boots a whisper from touching, and raised his chin in defiance despite his lack of Thorín's considerable height. The two of them stared at each other with shrewdly narrowed eyes for long moments, sneers of disgust hiding beneath their beards. Tormûnd was nothing less than quarrelsome, "Cannae say the same of you. Look soft around the middle."

At these words, the shorter dwarf reached out and swatted the Prince's midsection. Tension hung in the air, waiting for Thorín's reaction to befall the obstinate creature. Beyond a small flaring of his nostrils at the contact, Thorín remained still, "Any weight you may have gained must have only been in arrogance."

Tormûnd fought against it valiantly but eventually he snorted in laughter, the gaps of his several missing teeth glaring in his broad smile. "Nae! My 'arrogance' is always been right large!" and made a show of grabbing the front of his trousers as he spoke.

Even with his thick, barely understandable Northern accent, his meaning was more than clear and there were few that remained silent or unsmiling. Thorín could not withhold his own amusement at such antics, laughter bursting forth from him like sudden heat from a forge. "Bring yourself here!"

The two knocked heads, shoulders clasped with both hands to make it an official Dwarven greeting. It affected them little, being the proud owners of thick skulls but the sound was enough to make even Dwalin wince slightly. They had a long standing tradition of feigned hatred toward each other, their personal contest stemming entirely from the trials of their time training, not from any form of dislike. For nearly twenty years they had vied for top marks in each training arena, competing against others in their class as well but none so much as each other.

Their initial rivalry had turned to begrudging respect through their years of training and that relationship had grown into a tempered and solid friendship. Tormûnd was cantankerous and full of himself but Thorín had been able to break through that facade, only by way of beating the pulp out of him repeatedly, to the loyal and fierce warrior beneath. Tormûnd was never as content as he was on the field and was at his best in the heat of battle but he had also proved a sound mind when it came to matters outside the ring, when he was up to the task of speaking with more than weapons. As he reflected, Thorín realized there were an abundance of companions here that were one in the same and wondered how he could have forgotten what he had here.

One of the impatient young dwarves still standing a step behind caught the flame-haired dwarf's attention and they were both roughly introduced, "Thorín, son of yer Da - my brother-sons. Dorvé. Kiem."

Each head bobbed at its name, identical looks of suppressed excitement shining up at him. Thorín took a a moment to examine them well: the same copper hair braided into the same style, same noses, same green eyes, same mischievous glimmer in them. The obvious struck him, "Twins?"

The brothers simultaneously flashed the same toothy grin in response. Dorvé, he thought, parted his lips to speak but bowed his head when his uncle bellowed, "Corse they are! Cannnae tell the like of 'en apart, mos'times."

Thorín wondered a moment at their uncles behavior and nodded his head to the lads, directing his greeting pointedly toward them, "You are well met."

This time, the one called Kiem made as if to respond but Torumûnd cut him off as well, his jaw snapping shut at the wave of his uncle's hand, "Aye, aye and the lads are weepy with the honor and all that pish, I fancy. Cut it with the shite, Princey."

Normally, he would not have minded Tormûnd's rude behavior but this, he felt, was too much. Before he could do more than twitch his eyebrow, though, Dwalin leaned into him and muttered, "Nae allowed to speak, right yet. Punishment of one or another."

As vague understanding came over Thorín, Tormûnd heatedly added, "Damn right, too! Runnin' their poor, sweet mother ragged with their bloody dam-foolery, they are! Sent 'em to me ta get sorted out proper and I aim to make damn fine soldiers outta the two!"

This said much, coming from Tormûnd, and Thorín was sorely tempted to divulge some of their uncle's own "dam-foolery" if it meant relieving the young dwarrow of some embarrassment. However much pity he felt for the two lads, though, if they were any kin of Tormûnd, son of Tormane, it was more than likely they deserved whatever they had coming to them.

Thorín tucked his thumbs into his belt and unconsciously shifted into what his brother had once referred to as his "big boy stance". His feet moved farther apart and he leaned back slightly, staring down his nose even more so than usual at the shamed lads. His voice was firm but not any louder, "What have you done?"

He silently cursed himself for directing the question at the twins, having already forgotten they were not allowed to answer him, but remained stone-faced when Tormûnd turned on Dorvé, who had been about to reply, "You shut your bleedin' gob before I put another round of my blade to ya!"

Dwalin spoke up, the low rumble of laughter in his voice, "Lost their way to the mess hall and wound up in the ladies bathhouse, wannae the gist of it?"

Over the chuckles of the group around them, Tormûnd nodded, "Oh, aye. Annae short list of mangy fathers wanting wives made of their daughters, ya ken?"

Thorín could ken quiet well, in fact. Any sympathy he had felt for the two was halved by that and, as he stared them down, neither was brave enough to meet his eye. "Good. Well, that is settled then."

That got their attention and three sets of pale green eyes met his, though the boys were smart enough to take the opportunity to hold their tongues. Tormûnd inquired, "Settle what, now?"

Thorín had perfected the art of shrugging with his voice, "I have found my hand-to-hand sparring partners."

Both boys paled instantly. In an interesting turn, Dorvé seemed to straighten while Kiem shrank imperceptibly and Thorín could not help but notice. Tormûnd, on the other hand, bared his missing teeth, "Ah, aye! They're already against me in swords and Dwalin in axes. Hand-to-hand under you, though, thatta be bloody brilliant!"

Thorín nodded, the corners of his lips inching up though he felt a small amount of confusion at his friend's reaction. Tormûnd dismissed the boys, ordering them to join up with their class and meet him again later for a thrashing in melee weapons. Thorín watched the two shame-faced dwarrow slink off to the other side of the training grounds and felt a pull at his heart. He hoped someday he would have his own sons to deal affection and justice upon in equal amounts, the twins reminding him how far off that time would be.

"Well, Tormûnd," Dwalin said finally, having waited patiently through the entire introduction process with his arms crossed over his chest and a fond smirk on his face, "Whatever shall we do with our dainty Prince?"

Disregarding the slight completely, as insults were as much a sign of respect as his royal title coming from them, Thorín began to worry for his safety at the look that passed between them. Tormûnd's grin was feral, "Why, run The Gamut with him, fair Dwalin."

The larger dwarf nodded solemnly, the tattoos on his scalp glinting in the torch light, "My thoughts exactly, wee Tormûnd."

Thorín was hesitant to ask, "The Gamut?"

Tormûnd's hand landed on Thorín's back with a resounding thud he felt in his chest, "Dannae worry, sweet Prince. Nae as bad as it sounds."

Dwalin barked with laughter, "Aye! It's worse!" and pointed to the wall of the cavern.

The walk to the entrance was filled with an increasing sense of anxiety and Thorín did not speak along the way, instead focused on trying to comprehend the enormity of the marvel before him. A vertical course had been worked into the mountain wall of the cavern, over one hundred feet in height at its finish, if Thorín had to guess. Small windows and gaps in the stone allowed an observer brief glimpses of the contestants within but no clear view of what lay inside. He could see, from the few brave souls that were already partially through the run, that it was no easy feat. To add to it, like most Dwarven creations, there were no safety features apparent and if a dwarf did not choose his footing carefully, there would be no remains to bury when they reached the bottom. Thorín swallowed the lump of fear that threatened to rise in his throat.

They came to a stop thirty paces from the base of the wall, a crowd milling around the entrance as a standard practice. Obviously, when someone dared to run The Gamut, friend and rival alike came to watch. It was treacherous, trying and came with great reward at its completion - no other form of entertainment could even compare. As apprehensive as he was, Thorín could do nothing less than stare in wonder.

His voice was tinged with awe, "Where did this come from?"

Dwalin did not endeavor to smother his pride, chest pushed out and hands on his hips, "We built it."

Thorín asked, warily, "We?"

This time, it was Tormûnd that responded, "Aye, 'we'! Dannae think that dolt could manage this by hisself, you, eh?"

Thorín did not. However, he only answered, "It is inspiring."

The dwarves on either side of him smugly swelled, surveying their work with him for a moment before he said, "Explain."

He was far from angry but his tone brokered no argument. It was already the voice of a King. Dwalin and Tormûnd looked to each other to see which would be the one to address him, Dwalin deciding he was the best of the two spoke up, "Well, to put a short on it, we ran out of things to do during training."

Tormûnd added, scratching the back of his head and examining his fingernails when he was done, "Aye, coudnae fin sonthin' ta challenge the likes of us." The holes of his missing teeth did little to dampen the brilliance of his smile.

Dwalin removed the axes from his hips, resting them carefully against a wooden stand nearby, and began to remove his vest, "Well, Thorín? Ya want the tour?"

Thorín nodded in deference and divested himself of his own weapons and overcoat. When he was down to boots, breeches and a loose linen shirt the two of them marched over to the opening which, despite the crudeness of it's creation, was carved with distinct dwarven decoration around it's edges, both imperfect and impressive.

As Tormûnd's voice echoed through the mountain to 'clear the course', Dwalin heaved himself onto the first step of the towering maze and Thorín followed. The same style of runes and knotwork as the opening were etched into the top face of it to signify a starting point. Thorín peered around the edges of the tunnel that squarishly led upwards, trying to gague what he would face in the coming challenge, but Dwalin held him back with a palm to the chest, "No cheatin', Princey."

Thorín smiled wanly at his use of Tormûnd's pet name but stepped back easily, still peering around him. Being inside the structure made him realize just how massive it really was. From the outside it had the shape of a pyramid balanced on it's point but now that he sheltered beneath that point and heard the echos high above him, he realized there was far more than what could be seen.

Tormûnd's visage peeked into the tunnel, "Guess yer time, dear brother?"

Thorín looked to his companion, who elaborated, "We try to best fifteen minutes to run it, bottom to top. Nae been accomplished yet."

Thorín raised an eyebrow, "What _is_ your best?"

Dwalin scowled at Tormûnd's guffaw and huffed, "Sixteen and some."

Tormûnd added, "Aye, the slimy bastard. Let me trip up in order to do it, too."

"Have you bested it?" Thorín questioned, to which the orange-haired dwarf shook his head unhappily. Thorín looked into the course again and cracked his knuckles, a satisfying pop resounding from each of his digits. "We will have to work on that."

He could feel their eyes on him, both glaring in challenge at his vague affront, but he stretched his shoulders and looked to Dwalin, "Lead the way, flower."

In response, Dwalin craned his head to either side, the grinding of his joints loud enough for Thorín to hear, "Keep up, dove."

Thorín felt, rather than saw, his companion lunge forward and he pursued, knowing he would have to stay slightly behind him to be lead through the maze of tunnels but the previous mention of competition propelled the blood through his veins and he had to force himself to hold back.

The first few turns upward were a test in and of themselves, climbing with use of footholds necessary in some places and in others there was nothing but smooth stone. Watching Dwalin suspend himself between the weight of his arms and legs, pressing against the slabs to inch himself up, Thorín followed suit. Instead of inching up, though, he used his momentum to spring from one side to the other and passed the other dwarf, reaching down from the next landing to hoist up his companion.

Dwalin shook his head once he stood on his own two feet and sprinted forward, taking a leftward tunnel followed by a sudden right. The floor beneath them stopped, a gap almost too wide to jump stood between them and the next landing. Thorín had skidded to a stop just before he was carried over the edge but Dwalin did not hesitate.

In two steps the hulking dwarf had propelled himself over the breach and continued without stopping. Thorín had to step back a few paces to gather up speed and leapt, unsure if it was enough to carry him across.

When his boots landed solidly on the stone, he did not pause to breathe a prayer of thanks, only just managing to dodge a low stone ceiling as he pursued his guide. Standing from the roll he had curled into he was faced with a broad expanse of rock wall that lead only upward. Dwalin was currently halfway to the top, his calloused hands gripping the rough stone easily. Thorín calculated quickly and began his ascent.

He knew if he were to slip, his fall would not kill him. He had realized there were several drops that were no more than twenty feet within the maze, enough to break a few bones but nothing truly fatal for a strong dwarrow as he had originally thought. They were a sturdy race but knowing he would not suffer death did not make him any less cautious, as the sensation of being pulled toward the ground one of his least favored. In haste, he pulled his weight toward the next landing with design to close the distance between himself and Dwalin, who had not slowed.

It was Dwalin's turn to reach for his friend and, with a huff of indignation, Thorín grasped the thick forearm that was offered. There was a brilliant grin on his friend's face when he again stood. It was met with narrowed eyes, inferring a demand of silence which the smug dwarf understood and the two took off down the next tunnel.

Time seemed to ebb in this place, the racing of his heart the only mark of it's passing. There were ropes to climb and bars to grip as he swung across more shallow chasms, he had no chance to ponder the moments that fled them. There was only The Gamut and it tested his limits and pushed him to extremes he had not experienced since he had begun to train. If he had possessed the breath, he would have praised Dwalin's creation for it's inventive and demanding nature. It was a true challenge, the like of which had yet to be found outside of battle. As it were, he could not spare any words for his lungs burned with the exertion of making it to the last stretch.

Here, Dwalin did pause, hands on his knees to find the will to speak and Thorín shortly found himself doing the same. It took them both quite an effort and they looked to the other, covered in a layer of dusty sweat and verging on delirium. Dwalin, still gasping, threw his head in the direction they had been headed, "Path. Choose."

His eyebrow arched as Thorín turned to observe their surroundings. There was, indeed, a fork in the path. Runes had been proudly chiseled into the separating wall, arrows directing "Dams" toward the left and "Khazad" toward the right. He smirked from his bent position, unable to laugh outright with his body's need for oxygen, and nodded toward the inscriptions, "Truly?"

Two crude figures had been etched into the empty surface beneath the runes, depicting the bodies of which the words described. The dam that had been scratched there seemed to be lifting her skirt invitingly while the male was frozen in a rude gesture. Even in jest and speed, dwarves were artists at heart and it was evident in the artwork. Dwalin bobbed his head in minor abashment, shrugging as if to say, "What can be done?"

Thorín chose the Khazad path.

It was difficult in every sense of the word, as Thorín expected it to be. The floor was broken up into sections, sloped and slanted at different angles from each other and the walls of the tunnel were triangular and too short to fully stand, making a quickened step even more dangerous. Several times he found his feet slipping on the smooth stone and only his instincts kept him upright and forward moving. Thick beams of rock barred the path as well, requiring them to be climbed over or crawled under and that slowed them down even more. He became frustrated at their pace, his body reaching the ends of its reserve, but all concern with speed vanished when the walls opened before them.

Dwalin paused to watch as he stared above him, slack-jawed, "How ya think, Princey?"

He turned in place, gazing at the beauty of the natural cavern they had entered. Little had been done to augment its design, the stone ceiling seemingly miles above them possessed a grand opening through which sunlight poured. Small birds flitted in and out of the gap, the presence of two dwarves completely unnoticed by the rightful inhabitants as they moved through the patterns of their lives. He shifted, taking in the pools of collected rain water that meandered down a series of small waterfalls into a much larger reservoir, which seemed to be supplied by an underground spring. He marveled, struck dumb by the sight of such a hidden treasure and found he could not reply. Words ceased to exist at the moment and, even if they had, he would not have been able to give voice to what he was seeing here.

For a reason utterly beyond him, Thorín pictured immediately the brown-haired dam he had met the previous day. Several incomplete thoughts passed through his mind at once - a desire to see her in this place, to show her its wonder and experience her reaction to such a thing. Much as his long-time friend was watching him now, he yearned to impart this secret with someone he held dear and create a memory that he knew he would cherish always. With these thoughts came images of her face in awe, her eyes sparkling with starlight as she craned her neck to see the sky. A neck that he would place his lips against and feel the fire of her beating heart.

These unintentional wanderings of his imagination descended to indecency far more quickly than he had ever experienced and the visions he found himself pondering caused a rash of red to creep over is face. The downward spiral of his mind state had digressed with such a speed he wondered if the physical exertion of getting here _had_ left him delirious. He felt Dwalin's eyes upon him, questioning with his sideways glance, and Thorín experienced an acute pang of anxiety, wondering if his childhood companion knew what had just happened inside his head. He cleared his throat in an effort to clear his mind, and tried to think of something to say.

After a pause, and mumbled, stupidly, "It is beautiful."

Dwalin made a noise somewhere between laughter and a snort, nodding in agreement when Thorín looked at him in question, "Not something I often hear from you."

The corner of Thorín's lips twitched - he was correct. Descriptions of beauty were far from normal in his day-to-day speech and he was not about to change, no matter the subject. As well spoken as he could sometimes be, he preferred simple truths and observations to long-winded, poetic utterings. He said what he wanted to say and that was enough. It was an old Dwarven saying to "speak simply or speak not" and it was one he lived by.

He pulled his fingers through his lengthening beard in thought, "Now, how are we to get out?"

Dwalin dropped his crossed arms and pointed above them. Thorín followed his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. Now that he was looking for it, a network of ropes developed before his eyes. They had be secured to part of the rock slightly behind them that led to a doorway carved high into the rock above them. He could see from where he stood that the frame had been decorated in the same design as the block they had started from, clearly indicating the end of the labyrinth. The web of ropes allowed the participant a path to the otherwise unreachable landing but no in way intended that task to be easily accomplished. Just looking at it, Thorín could see a section where it would be required to leap from one net to another that was directly across from it. All of this was positioned above the span of water, as if to break the descent of anyone who fell, which made him question the waters true depth.

"Well, Princey? Shall we?" Dwalin walked off without waiting for a reply, his hands and feet already lifting him from the floor. Thorín groaned inwardly, the only indication of his displeasure a slight crease between his brows and one, slow blink.

"_Mahal help me_," he thought and hoisted himself up and after his friend.

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_**A/N: Again, my apologies. **__****4,621** words to this chapter marks it as the longest I've ever written in any of my stories and, according to my beta reader who is now also my therapist, I need to stop making disparaging comments about myself as it detracts from the story. Well, fine. Silver lining there - I have a beta reader! Much thanks and please review!**_

_**-L-**_


	5. Chapter 5 - A Strange Encounter

**_A/N: Thank you to all of you who favorited or followed my story! You have no idea how much that is appreciated. I would also like to shoutout to my lovely beta-reader who has helped me IMMENSLEY with this and the last chapter. Thank you all so much for your continued support!_**

**_As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

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**A Strange Encounter**

There was not a single part of Thorín that didn't ache but the cold, smooth stone against his bare feet held as much therapeutic value as the clouds of steam that he walked through. The thick mist of the bathhouse made it difficult to see where he was going but he managed to follow the forms of Dwalin and Tormûnd, who were boasting loudly to one another, well enough to avoid running into any of the other patrons as the three made their way to the area that housed the larger pools.

The sound of other, muffled conversations drifted through the warm fog, pressing against his skin like another layer of sweat he did not need. He felt sticky and tired and his body longed for the heated water that awaited him. His eyes were drifting shut of their own accord, threatening him with unconsciousness if he did not rest soon. He hoped he would not fall asleep during any of the council meetings or, at least, that his elders would understand if he nodded off. He shook his head thoroughly but it did little to affect the daze that had settled on him.

After hours of training with different members of his old class, including four matches against Tormûnd's nephews in hand-to-hand as promised, he had finally had enough. He wondered if he should have been easier on himself but, deep down, he knew he had been enjoying it far too much to stop any sooner. If he were to be honest, the only reason he had left the arena had been because Dwalin and Tormûnd had other matters that required their attention. He had fully forgotten the meetings he needed to attend that afternoon and had yet to break his fast, though it was already past midday. He sighed, stretching his twitching muscles as he trailed after his friends.

Common baths were scattered throughout Erebor, open to the public regardless of gender or status but royalty had their own facilities and Thorín had become used to bathing in his private chambers. He had not returned to this bathhouse since he last trained, mostly out of convenience as it was adjacent to the arenas for the specific use of warriors in need of it. Because they were many levels below his own rooms, as well as the halls in which the council gathered, he had little reason to visit the common baths and had almost forgotten its layout. Now though, in his current stupor, he blindly followed his companions in a way that should have bothered him. Given the circumstances, he had not the energy to invest in personal opinion and was focused singularly on the task of walking in a straight line, which was more than enough of a challenge.

It was not well known to outsiders how fastidious the Khazad were when it came to grooming - perhaps because their wild appearance gave the belief otherwise or because the truth of the matter was as well a kept secret amongst them as any of their other habits, one would never know. Dwarrow and dam alike were held in contempt for not caring for themselves and hair alone was considered sacred which made constant tending of their appearance important, no matter gender or social status. In comparison with Elves and Men, however, Dwarves were far more liberated when it came to their opinion of modesty.

Naked Dwarves were a normal sight in and around bathhouses - both genders could be seen in various states of undress and, though females were far more often seen wearing shifts and robes to cover their bodies, even that was infrequent. Though other levels had specific bathhouses, this house and others like it were mixed due to amount of use. Being so close to both the training grounds and residences of the working class, it would make little sense to divide them in such a way. Propriety was a non-issue when it came to cleanliness and it was customary to relax in the hot baths without the anxiety of segregating the sexes and warriors had little care for propriety in the first place.

So, when the three comrades had disrobed at the door, handing their clothing to a washwoman stationed by the entrance and marched through the steam-filled corridors, chatting all the while, it truly was with little concern or thought of their nudity at all. If anything was brought to mind, it was only a sense of relief at shedding the weight of well earned armor and this was a feeling that all Khazad shared.

The majority of their training party had retired far earlier, their days now occupied with trade or commerce that could not be ignored. Several had lingered with them, either putting off their own work to visit with their long-lost friend or because their training demanded it but even so, only five had withstood the grueling hours of punishment Thorín had put himself through. He was walking with two of them.

The other three had made it to the baths before them and called out when they neared. Thorín barely registered the clamor, changing his direction only enough to avoid wading into the wrong pool and even that was hardly his own decision. Bofur, his older brother, Bifur, and their neighbor, Nori, had all but reserved that specific pool for their lot and Thorín was pleased that it was not crowded.

Water lapped at his legs as he waded dumbly toward them, surrounding first his calves and thighs before encasing his hips in a glorious heat. He sunk heavily onto the submerged bench that ran along the walls of the pool and sighed as the waters surface crept up his chest. He slouched even further, stopping only when he could rest the back of his head on the pools edge, effectively covering his shoulders as well. He pondered his existence, shortly, questioning his sustained survival before this moment.

"You look like you've died and come back."

Thorín could not force his eyes open, though his ears knew the voice. He made a reply that lingered between grunt and moan, too exhausted to smile at the soft chuckle of his friend.

Bofur shifted beside him, causing the water to cover Thorín's chin for a moment, and continued casually, "Not that it says much. You looked half-dead two hours ago."

Thorín's lips twitched at that but he made no further effort of response, fully absorbed in recovering in the paradise of the heated pool.

There was no world outside the warmth around him right then. He was weightless, free of pain and worry, drifting through his short time here without purpose or responsibility and he would enjoy it while he was able. It was bound to be interrupted sooner, rather than later, and he would not take for granted the censure of his exhaustion.

Voices caught his ear and he could tell from the rise in water level they were being joined by another group. He could not muster the inclination to care and so kept his eyes closed, nearing the brink of sleep that his mind so craved until Bofur mentioned, "Your brother looks a little spotty, today."

That got Thorín's attention, even if it was only a slight raise of his eyelids to squint at their new companions. He grunted again, "Prob'ly from the throttling I gave 'im yesterday."

Thorín could do little better than mumble but it got his point across. He begrudgingly decided that sleep would come when it was necessary and slithered into a sitting position, clumsily resting his arms along the edge of the pool behind him. His shoulders creaked, then popped, and he sighed in contentment.

He gazed around at the dwarrow joining them, catching sight of Frerín showing off in the middle of them all, but also noticed Tormûnd's nephews and the fair distance they were keeping from their uncle and his group. Frerín was indeed looking rather ragged but his humor was far from defeated. A smile threatened to break free from the reposing Prince at the sound of his brother's laughter but even his cheeks were tired from use.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bofur's askance contemplation of him. Without turning, he asked, "Yes?"

The black-haired dwarf seemed to ponder his answer first, "So...technically...that'd make you 'undead', then, eh?"

Thorín felt the muscles of his face press into the ghost of a smile that lasted only an instant, "Is that what you would call it?"

Bofur pretended not to find it amusing, "Thorín the Undead Prince. Has a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?"

Despite his aching body, Thorín laughed. It was a short bark, followed by a sigh, but it was a laugh none the less. Bofur had a way of bringing joy wherever he went. In every conversation, with every statement or question, he made an observation about the world that no other would see and the humor in it was brought to the attention of anyone in his vicinity, whether they desired it or not.

Thorín had always enjoyed Bofur's company - the dwarf was easy to converse with on any topic and Thorín could let down his guard in a way he rarely could with others. Bofur was the kind of friend that would burst into song for no reason other than to make someone smile or do a jig atop a table to bring laughter to a grim room. His gentle soul and tender heart made him difficult not to love and, so endearing was his sweetness of manner, all of the mountain held him in their hearts. He had found great joy and satisfaction in making enchanted and mechanical toys for the children of Erebor and had invested most of his time, effort and coin into a business of his own, doing just that.

Bofur smiled to himself, not looking at Thorín, "Or, perhaps, Thorín the Half-Dead Prince? That would work, too."

When Thorín could breathe again, he shook his head, "No, not heroic enough. The Khazad do nothing in half measures."

Bofur nodded in decided agreement, "Full undead, then."

Thorín's renewed laughter brought attention to the two of them, the eyes of everyone who heard his hearty guffaws turning to discover the source of the commotion. To most, the sight of a pleased Bofur was enough explanation but, for some, further investigation was needed. Frerín was one of these, "Brother!"

Thorín took deep breaths between bouts of laughter, trying to calm himself as his golden-headed sibling made his way through the waist high water toward him. Frerín's smile was infectious and Thorín was tired enough, he cared little for what he was smiling about, "_Nadeth_! Have you finally decided to recognize me?"

Frerín tipped his head, still grinning, "Never. Only wondering what was so funny when I was excluded from the conversation!"

Thorín looked to Bofur, who only raised his eyebrows slightly, and tried not to laugh as he spoke, "Your face causes me great amusement."

Frerín glared playfully, the purple and green ring around his left eye displayed in stark contrast to his fair hair, "That much is obvious. You have my thanks for bringing it to public attention, again."

Bofur smirked, "Och, laddie, couldnae miss it from a mile off."

Thorín laughed again, much to his brother's apparent chagrin, running a hand through his damp hair as he changed the subject, "I had not seen you on the training grounds. Did I miss you?"

Frerín smiled smugly, "You always miss me, dear brother."

Thorín rolled his eyes but the younger continued before comment could be made, "Nay, I did not train today."

Bofur inquired, "Oh? Then what brings you here, lad? Seems a tad out of the way for you." Thorín silently agreed, disliking the sly expression that came over his brother's face.

Frerín shook out his hair, preening as he spoke, "Tactics, my friend."

Thorín and Bofur exchanged a look, both curious as to the meaning of his vague statement when the blonde dwarf turned and waved to someone across the room, "Thríva!"

Thorín felt his stomach drop, discreetly searching the crowd for the brown-haired maid he could not stop himself from thinking about since their meeting. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment when his eyes landed upon the very face he hoped he would not find and, as Frerín waded to the poolside where she had stopped at his call, Thorín did his best to look anywhere but the two of them. Bofur noticed the change in his demeanor but decided not to comment on it. Instead, he wisely started a discussion about weapons with Dwalin, who was lounging on his other side, and left the Undead Prince to his own devices.

Alone in his discomfort, Thorín busied himself, spending an inordinate amount of time rubbing soap across his body and working it into his hair and beard so he would not have to watch his brother converse with the object of his recent and unwarranted fascination. For a long, few moments, the ploy worked but he found his attention brought again and again to her nearby presence.

Through not-so-subtle reconnaissance he noticed she wore a shift and carried a towel, along with other toiletries, through which could be assumed that she was here to utilize the bathing facilities as well, though he was sure she had chosen the local for its nearness to her dwelling and not due to any use of the training grounds. It was more likely that she had worn the shift because she traveled from somewhere else and had not given over the clothing at the door, he thanked Mahal, because she would need to wear it back which led him to believe that she lived in one of the homes within short walking distance or she would have worn more. That, however, did not necessitate his maddening consideration of it and he mentally chastised himself for how long he had been pondering her simple dress. He scrubbed his hair furiously, dipping his head not only to rinse the lather from it but also to cool it off.

As he tried to squeeze the remaining water from his scalp and chin, he looked over his shoulder and unintentionally locked eyes with the woman he was avoiding. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked quickly away, seeming almost as flustered as he felt. For a breath, he thought he had caught her staring. The feeling in his stomach grew, stronger and stranger, until he realized what was happening in front of him.

Her cheeks were flushed, yes, but he could also believe that this was caused by his brother's behavior and not him at all. He was surprised at the disappointment he felt but it was pushed aside and replaced with annoyance with his brother, who was on the verge of causing a scene.

Frerín reached out for her skirt a second time, playfully tugging it toward him as if to intice her into the pool and, again, she brushed his hand away in distress, though her smile and nervous laughter were an effort to show something different. He could not hear the words between them due to the raucous din of which they were in the midst. The other occupants of the room were oblivious to the scene but Thorín could see with increasing clarity that his brother's flirtation was unwanted.

She shook her head, eyebrows high, her pretty lips forming an 'O' in a sincere display of negative body language that Frerín was refusing to read or accept as an answer. The blonde was pleading with her, still playful, but Thorín knew his brother did not give up his pursuits easily and it was now clear to him this was what it was. The strange sensation beneath his navel boiled into a more familiar and manageable anger. That was something he knew how to handle and he turned with the intention of bringing his brother to heel.

Before he had even taken a step, everything changed. Frerín wrapped his arms around the dam's legs and pulled her to him and a loud squeal of shock erupting from the unwilling party mixed with the antagonist's throaty laughter. She twisted and kicked, dropping her belongings to stop herself from toppling over his shoulder into the water with them. She cursed him loudly, still trying to free herself from his grip and succeeded only in overbalancing them and they began to tumble backwards.

Time seemed to slow down. Had he not already been headed in their direction, Thorín would not have been close enough to catch her in the arc of their fall before they hit the water. She weighed little and he set her feet lightly on the dry stone, ignoring his brother's splashing and gathered her belongings from the water. The towel had fallen on the ground next to her and he set her things upon it. She stood in shock, brushing a few stray hairs absentmindedly back into place while she watched him, her mouth open slightly. The room had fallen silent and Thorín was painfully aware of the focus on them.

By the time he had fished out all her things, including a sopping wet slipper, his brother had found his feet and came up sputtering. Thorín didn't spare him a glance, reaching over and pushing his head so he fell again and rung out the wet shoe before handing it back to her. Laughter followed and, holding out the slipper to her, Thorín found it very difficult to meet her eye, "Deepest aoplogies, my lady."

She was silent long enough that he needed to reach back and shove his brother's head under water again. Holding him down this time, he did meet her wide-eyed stare, "I will deal with my brother."

She managed to close her mouth, looking away as she blushed, "Dannae kill him, my Prince."

With an air of complete innocence he released his sibling, who gasped loudly and yelled at him before tripping and going under once more, top thefurther amusement of the crowd that had gathered. Not once did Thorín turn his head, "I do not know of what you speak."

She almost smiled as she picked up her toiletries, her lips pressed tight against it but her dimples exposing the truth. She bobbed a quick curtsey and reddened further, "My thanks."

She all but ran, dodging around standers-by to make her hasty retreat. Frerín, to his credit, stood with water cascading of him and bellowed, "Goodbye, Thríva! I'll see you tonight!"

Thorín faced his idiot brother with narrowed eyes. Frerín's ever-present grin faded and his anger matched his brother's. Before the two could turn on each other, Dwalin stepped in, "What in Durin's name was that, Frer?"

Frerín was far from his jovial self, giving a look to his elder brother that would have started a lesser dwarf aflame before turning to respond, "What did it seem?"

Thorín spoke so low it was nearly a growl, "It seemed a foolish boy giving attention where it was not wanted!"

"Not wanted!" Frerín did nothing to keep his voice down, causing Dwalin to glance around them as the two argued, "I'll have you know, I am here at her request!"

Thorín took a deep breath in through his nose, prepared to exhale fire, when Bofur chimed in, "She asked you to bathe? I wouldn't take that as a compliment."

And, for all his anger, Thorín had to bite his tongue to stop from laughing. Frerín was not amused, though everyone who still listened found great humor in the comment. Bofur had worked his magic yet again and Thorín found himself able to let go of his anger for a moment and turn the situation to view it from his brother's side. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp and in need of brushing, bringing his gaze back to his fuming, black-eyed brother. He felt no wish to apologize for what he felt had been the right course of action but conceded he may have let his emotions get the better of him.

Thorín exhaled heavily, "I am sorry for my anger, _nadath_. I did not see her desire to be here. I should not have intervened."

Frerín slowly stopped trying to kill him with his mind, his frown softening into a tight line. His own apology was backhanded, "And I do not take well "No" for an answer."

Thorín raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Frerín rolled his eyes, "Yes. I'm sorry. I was being stupid. There."

Thorín shook his head, the corner of his mouth curving as he held out his arm. Frerín took it, begrudgingly, and they grasped forearms. Bofur cooed, "Awe, boys! Let's never fight again!"

The moment passed and Thorín looked coolly over his shoulder, "I can drown you just as easily, brownie."

Bofur gaped, "You callin' me a faery?"

Thorín grinned as he make his way back to his seat, over-articulating his words, "It is all about _size_."

Bofur made a loud argument that consisted mostly of cursing over the sound of hysterical laughter and they all settled in for they had come there to do. Thorín and Frerín kept their distance but it was not uncomfortable. The company talked and laughed, washing and drying in their normal routine as if nothing had happened. The brothers spoke to each other briefly in conversation a handful of times but it was of no importance and their previous ire dissolved like soap in the warm water.

As they were preparing to leave, Thorín had just begun to believe they would move on when he overheard Nori asking Frerín why he had told the dam he would see her that night. His ears perked up and he listened covertly for the answer he would not seek himself. Nori knew of her and her occupation, for she was quite well known, so when Frerín explained that he had arranged for her to weave his hair in preparation for his sister's birthday party, Nori accepted it without a second thought.

Thorín, however spent the rest of his afternoon with the strange feeling in his stomach returned in force and a sense that there was more to his brother's plan than what he had let on.

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**_A/N: Don't kill me, the next chapter is in the works! :D  
-L-  
_**


	6. Chapter 6 - Stopped Short

**_A/N: Thank you, *Thank You* THANK YOU! to all of you who favorited or followed my story! You have no idea how much that is appreciated. I would also like to shoutout to my lovely beta-reader, deinvati, who has helped me IMMENSLEY. Thank you all so much for your continued support!_**

**_ mscrazypants - I am SO PUMPED to hear that! Uber glad that you like it and I can't wait to write more. I came from a large family and have a large family so sibling dynamics are things I am familiar with. I will do my best to get the NEXT chapter out quickly!_**

**_As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

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**Stopped Short**

Thorín paced anxiously across the polished floor of the council room. He was early for this part of the gathering but only because the members of council had broken for a meal not long ago. Because of his forgetfulness, that morning had continued without him and he was lucky he had remembered in time for the second half of the proceedings. He closed his eyes and prayed his father would understand his absence, lest the conversation between them the night before had been forgotten.

He stopped behind the second chair from the head of the table, his seat next to his father who sat at the King's right hand. Organized neatly on the long granite table in front of it were the results and findings for a project he had been assigned only a few days before. He had been set to report on it the previous day, to not only his father but his grandfather and the council as well, but he had be excused before the opportunity had been granted.

Thorín had spent hours compiling the information, determined to prove his worth on the council, and a sense of accomplishment and pride in himself had bolstered his confidence in his ability to excel in this line of work. He had always presumed he would fare better under physical labor, as with the forges or within the warrior class, but this was far easier than he had originally thought and he found himself pleased with the possibility of continuing in this way as well. His excitement had been stymied by his sudden expulsion and then pressed to the back of his mind with the events afterwards but it had come back in full force now that he would be able to complete what he had been unable to the previous day.

He was grateful, now, that he had not had the time to gather his things before he had been ushered out or the notes would have remained in his rooms when he left for training early that morning. He took another few moments to push them into an even neater arrangement, reviewing the information he had so carefully compiled in his mind, murmuring to himself the words he would say in reference to each piece of parchment, drawing and quotation he had on the subject. For such a simple matter, he had gone to extraordinary lengths to prepare for what was his first individual assignment as an aide to the King Under the Mountain.

Despite his eagerness to impress his elders, he was concerned that he had not done enough in preparation. He had worked through every possible question that might be brought to his attention and had considered his answers so he could respond with ease but it did little to dull the adrenaline. Thorín sighed, rubbing his eyes when he had completed his mantra of information for what had to have been the tenth time since he arrived and growled in frustration when the image of a certain dam wearing a white shift formed behind his eyes. He had no time for the distraction but he also lacked the energy to fight himself on it either.

He continued pacing for, despite his confidence and agitation, he could feel the weight of exhaustion on him heavier than the fur-lined coat that he had discarded at the door. His body cried for rest but his mind teemed with anxiety, both from his upcoming trial and the torment he had just recently escaped.

He barely remembered their exit from the bath house, friends parting in different directions and leaving him to himself. He walked aimlessly, rolling his brother's words around in his head until he it felt as if it would burst from use.

_"She is a weaver, is she not?" Frerin had grinned, winking at Nori, "She is to weave my hair for Dis' party."_

It was the wink that was an itch in his brain, like a cut on the roof of his mouth that would heal if only he would leave it alone. That small facial tic changed the very meaning of his statement. It was the dividing line between the words that he said and some form of innuendo, leaving Thorín beleaguered with annoyance and concern.

The worry had little to do with his brother at all, for reasons which would have been obvious to anyone else, but befuddled the poor Prince to no end. He was irritated, both with Frerín for being a nuisance in the first place and with himself for being so irritated about it.

He could not understand what afflicted him so, still confused by the emotions he had thought to be rid of until her name brought them all rising to the surface. He refused to allow himself to believe what he was experiencing was anything more than mild interest but that refusal made coming to any other conclusion even more difficult. So he walked in a familiar circle around the council chamber to fight off sleep he would not get, his mind a whirling procession of unanswerable questions

Had it not been for the elder brother of Dwalin, he may have spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the mountain, lost in his own thoughts the way he was now. Balin, older and wiser but with the same wide streak of mischievous humor that ran through Fùndin's line, had nearly been bowled over when Thorín turned a corner without paying particular attention. Apologies spilled from the young Prince as he helped the dark-haired dwarf recover, his previous concentration redirected to concern for the junior administrator.

"Thank you, Thorín, I am well." Balin waved dismissively but not unkindly, his brown, knowing eyes taking in his companions appearance. "My question is, are you?"

Thorín almost laughed, "I am fine, Master Balin. Again, you have my apologies for my lack of attention."

Balin smiled, "No need to 'Master' me, laddie. We know each other better than that."

Thorín nodded, his mind starting to drift back to its previous loop, when Balin continued, "The council was concerned for your health when you did not arrive for this morning's meeting. Now, I see you here looking peaked and in need of a good rest with a thousand troubles in your mind. Are you _sure_ you are well, my Prince?"

Thorín was touched by his genuine concern, realizing he must have caused more worry than he intended by not attending, "I assure you, my friend, I am well. I took up my training again and have been working with your brother all morning to remember myself."

Balin chuckled in understanding, "Took ya all mornin', did it?"

Thorín looked down, sheepishly, "Aah, well, most of it." He paused, picking at his thumb, "It is only one thing, really, that troubles me at the moment."

Balin nodded, "Hmm. Your presentation to the council, aye?"

Thorín's eyes shot up, followed quickly by his hands covering his face and pulling on his beard, "Blessed Mahal, that's right!"

Before racing off, he grasped the confused dwarf by the shoulders, "Thank you, Balin. I will see you after lunch." He left the councilman standing where he was, obviously wondering what that one thing actually had been.

He had snatched a small loaf of bread from the kitchens and jogged to the council room, managing not to choke as he ran and ate simultaneously. Half of the loaf he tucked into his coat pocket when he hung it by the door and fairly inhaled what he had in his hand, preparing for the upcoming meeting. Now, while he stood with his forehead pressed against the stone wall, his longing to eat what was left of his stolen lunch was interrupted by the council members entering the room.

They were less than subtle - their collective boots on the stone and boisterous conversations overlapped one another, as if competing to be the loudest. One council member, the Senior Representative of Legal Holdings and Deeds Thorín remembered, seemed to be debating with only himself while others appeared straining to ignore him. He moved to his own seat, warily eyeing the dwarves that were slowly gathering behind empty chairs and felt their heavy stares in return. He knew he must look disheveled and ran his hands through his hair and over his beard to calm his nerves. The chamber quieted when the King and his son entered the room.

Thrór held himself in his usual manner, a grim stoicism set in every angular line of his body. His presence was hardly diminished by his considerable age and he still possessed the power to make Dwarves and Men alike kneel before him. A strong chin held evenly between bold confidence and outright defiance and a mouth that bore neither smile or frown. From his earliest memories, Thorín could remember believing his grandfather was a living example of what a King was and should be.

Thorín remembered his mother saying how his grandfather's image was mirrored in his uncle, Thród. His own looks followed this vein, even though his father had carried on the the Queen's likeness. Thraín's red-brown hair and powerful green eyes were descended from the woman who bore him and her line before her which had caused a noticeable rift between King and second son. At Thorín's birth, Thrór had been elated that a dark-haired, dark-eyed Durin male had graced his family once again. The King had been in such good spirits that he had jokingly suggested the line of inheritance be broken and passed down to the infant, based on appearance alone. This was not accepted with good humor by Thraín.

Thraín had never been destined as heir to the throne. It had come upon him unwarranted and had crushed many hopes and dreams in its wake. Thród, his elder brother, had been killed in battle against an Orc party near the fields of Erebor. His mother, the Queen Fríga, became ill with the wasting sickness brought on by her heartbreak shortly after and had only lived another two years before passing into The Halls of Mandos to be with her first born. Thraín's sister, the Lady Frís, had been married to the Lord of the Iron Hills and Thraín alone was left to morn their losses with his father.

By the day Thorín had come into the world, many had thought the King of the Silver Fountains unfit to rule because of his grief and, to counteract any plots against the throne, Thrór had named his second son heir to the throne against all advisement. So strongly had it been opposed, a change of council had been called for the first time in centuries and there were still rumbles of insanity even now. Thorín's birth had solidified their bloodline and rebellion had ceased. Eventually.

Today, Thorín could see every crease of worry in his father's face and sense the tension in his shoulders. He was limping again, something that happened often when he slept in his chair instead of his bed, and Thorín felt a pang of guilt for not having seen to his well-being before leaving him the night before.

When their eyes met, though, Thraín found a genuine grin for his son somewhere deep in his cheeks and all of it melted away, "The hardened warrior returns!"

Thorín could not help but smile in return, noticing that the King looked on favorably as the two embraced. When backs were patted, Thraín held him by the shoulders, his good eye roaming over his son's appearance, "Straight from the grounds, are ya?"

Thorín nodded and his father released him, "My apologies, _adâd_, for my absence. It was not my intention to cause concern."

Thraín shook his head, still smiling, "You needed the time."

Thorín bowed slightly in gratitude, noticing that his grandfather was watching them with his chin lifted, pride in his eyes. He bowed again to his King, "Grandfather."

"_Sigindashat_."

The greeting was short, formal and lacking most warmth, which took Thorín aback. He blinked, bowing again before even rising out of his first gesture to cover his confusion and still appear respectful. He continued to watch the King out of the corner of his eye, not standing fully until his grandfather had passed him before looking with worry to his father when he felt it was safe to do so. Thraín's good was eye narrowed and his lips were a thin, twisted line which indicated more than a usual amount of displeasure with his King. He had seen that look before and it was more often as of late.

_They were fighting, again,_ Thorín thought to himself and he felt his spirits decrease dramatically with the knowledge.

Once the King was settled on his throne at the head of the table, everyone remaining took their seats and it seemed to Thorín that he was not the only one to notice the subtle enmity between the two. He considered the possibility that their argument had begun before they had been out of hearing or, even, still in the presence of the council and that the dwarves around him felt the same unease. The usual amount of grumbling was heard but there were sideways glances and even a handful of pointed stares in the direction of the throne, justifying his belief that something had happened to end the meeting and it may not have been entirely for the midday meal.

The King began without preamble, calling for one or another of the council to brief, supply, or fetch him any and all information he required. This was the normal routine of the council - the deep barking orders of Thrór, the rumbling replies of his council, Thraín's half-hearted additions and Thorín's absolute silence. The subject did not matter, Thorín had learned long ago that he was better off keeping quiet unless directly spoken to and that was infrequent at best.

His required muteness had taught him how to listen, however, not only to the speaker but to the whispers and murmurs that went on behind them. As an example, even though he was focused on the Representative of Banking Interests speak about the sudden influx of emeralds, his ears were also tuned in to the discussion that traveled behind the hands of two other council members a few seats from him, involving a tentative scheme to gain a portion of that bounty for themselves. Thorín ground his teeth together at the vein of conversation, enough so that his father turned his head.

With only a flick of his eye, Thraín's demeanor changed from resigned boredom to annoyance and he cleared his throat to garner the errant dwarves' attention. Their heads moved apart slightly but nothing else was done. Thorín nodded in his father's direction, doing what he could to keep from drawing attention to himself. A movement in the corner of Thraín's mouth indicated they were of the same mind when it came to meddling, underhanded tactics but it would be dealt with outside the meeting hall to save face. Thorín settled in for what he knew would be another long day.

It was two, woeful hours of prattling, bickering and hem-hawing before Thorín was called to give his presentation.

He had begun to drift off, his eyes closing for longer and longer periods before he found his head listing to the side as if he dearly wanted to listen to his shoulder instead of the droning dwarrow that stood before them now. It had taken his father shifting in his seat to make him realize the tilt of his head and he glanced around hastily to see if anyone had noticed. From what he could see, few dwarves were more interested than he had been - several were in states of slumber deeper than his own had been and there was one, the loud Representative of Legal Holdings and Deeds, that seemed to be building a miniature structure out of the pieces of a stone mug that had been whole at the beginning of the meeting.

Thorín blinked the sleep from his eyes, wincing as he repositioned himself in the unforgiving chair to allow the blood flow back into his legs and his lower limbs began tingling mercilessly. He happened to meet the eyes of Thraín, who looked to have just awoken himself and they gave each other a sheepish smirk. Thorín was unable to tell if Thrór sat with open eyes or closed and he questioned his father with a raised brow. Thraín bothered with little more than a blink in that direction, stood with a grunt and pounded his fist on the table.

Thorín knew he was tired because he had to fight down laughter at the sight of so many grown dwarves jumping at the sound. The precarious structure of Legal Holdings and Deeds fell with a clatter and the old Khazad's face was comically distraught at the sight.

"That'll be enough of that drabble, Hani." Thraín commanded, reclaiming his chair with a squeal of stone-against-stone, "You've explained it well enough. No reason to bore us to death."

Hani blinked, looking around him in a sudden confusion, as if he was only then realizing he was not alone. The dwarf was of small stature and soft spoken, his bookish personality only adding to his overall mousy appearance. Thorín began to pity the poor man, for he looked as devastated by the interruption as the dwarf whose tiny stone building had collapsed.

Hani stammered, endeavoring to regain his composure, "M-my apologies, m-my lord..."

Thraín waved him to sit, "Right, right. Save some air for the rest of us."

Scattered chuckles brought a flame to Hani's cheeks and he sat down, staring at the table between his palms. Thorín had little time to dwell on the sight, for a nearly-casual suggestion started his heart hammering anew, "I think it time to hear from the Prince on his findings, my King."

Thorín looked wide-eyed toward the voice to find its owner, Fùndin, watching him with a serene benevolence. Balin, son of Fùndin, the same dwarf he had nearly run over earlier, sat beside his father and they tipped their heads in unison, a slight nod in his direction to indicated their advocacy on his behalf. He returned the gesture with a gratitude he scarcely felt for all his excitement and turned to his grandfather for approval.

The old Khazad's brows raised and the King seemed to allow it, more out of surprise than anything else. Thorín stood, bracing himself against the table to stop the shaking in his legs, and looked carefully over the expectant faces that surrounded him. All the tumultous energy he had unconsciously supressed came boiling to the surface and he had to force his face into the stoic expression he usually wore to hide his grin.

He was proud that his voice carried through the room without effort, something he must have inherited from his father, "As you all know, five days past there was a collapse in a major branch of the newest mining tunnels leading to the last Míthríl vein."

He watched, pausing for nods of acknowledgement before standing straighter, "After their initial assessment, the Builder's and Mason's guilds could not come to an agreement over whether or not it possible to reopen the paths and, if it were, whether it would be safe to continue using them."

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly, grasping his biceps, "I was given the task of getting them to work together and I believe that we have devised a practical and fortuitious plan of action."

"And how many barrels of ale did that take?"

Thorín was unsure to whom the voice belonged but he smiled over the pattering of chuckles, his easy reply bringing out even more, "Surprisingly, only two."

He delved into the specifics of his plan, for it was almost soley of his design, though the guild masters had stubbornly aided him in its creation as well. He made sure to give credit where it was due and by the time he had reached the last point of his explanation, he felt a heady sense of surety in himself. When the hall fell silent, he turned to his father who winked at him with a smirk, and he swelled with pride.

"And the guild masters agreed to all of this?"

Thorín searched for the speaker, his eyes landing on the smiling face of Balin and nodded slowly in response, "Indeed they did."

Balin raised his eyebrows and, after a breath, Thorín added, "With a considerable amount of persuasion, of course."

When the council had laughed enough, another member, Virfir of Integral Design and Support, stood to address them with a question in regards to structural drawings for the inside of the tunnels and all eyes turned to him again in expectation.

Thorín realized, then, that Balin's simple inquiry had opened the floor to questions and he knew he could answer them without an ounce of doubt. Balin nodded to him again, sitting back in his chair with satisfaction as Thorín replied to each with a calm demeanor and a steady voice. Rather than feeling the beginnings of a great weight that he could not bear, as he had feared, he felt a sense of comfort in this role that was like putting on a well-worn coat.

Until one last question brought it all to a halt, "How much will this venture _cost_?"

Thorín had been waiting for that question, passing down to the dwarf that had asked a total of the figures he had spent long hours calculating by himself. He explained to the council that while it would require a fair amount of gold to complete, it would be worth the investment to secure the safety and livelihood of their people. He did not mention his personal opinion that it would be less than likely that the treasuries of Erebor would even see a dent in their numbers or that it did not compare to some expenses the Crown had indulged in the past. His grandfather, however, had his own opinions.

The King demanded to see the list himself and waited impatiently for it to be brought. Once he had torn it from the hands of the guard carrying it, he began to pour over the document with suspicion and recited every listed amount before questioning it's necessity.

Resentment began to build inside Thorín with each "Justify this cost" and "How did you come to this" the King threw at him. Thrór became increasingly irritated, snapping when Thorín carefully explained each and every item before finally throwing the page aside and twisting in his seat, "This is unacceptable!"

Thorín, bewildered and tired, could not stay his tongue, and exclaimed, "What could you possibly see wrong with it?"

Thorín's intestines shrunk inside him as if it would help him hide from the King's glare, "Everything."

The word hit Thorín like a falling boulder and he felt his chest constrict with the shock. Before he could even breathe, his father stood and growled, "How dare you."

For a moment, he believed that Thraín spoke to him, incredulous that his own flesh and blood would speak to their King in such a way, but when he raised his eyes to face his punishment he found that it was quite the other way around.

Thraín was staring down his Dwarven nose at his father, the man who had sired and raised him, with such a sneer of disgust that his face twisted into something unrecognizable. His voice shook with anger and Thorín could only watch in terrified awe as his father spat out, "What is wrong with your mind? He has done well and you can still find fault in that?"

Thrór disagreed, loudly, "I am King! I will find fault where I see fit!"

Thraín seemed ready to lash out, leaning forward as his voice began to grow in volume, "You gave him this assignment and he had done everything you asked of him, and more! If you can find fault in his logic you are seeing shadows in the sunlight! What else could you want?"

By the time he had finished insulting the King, his tone had become a bellow but Thrór was no wilting flower. He stood slowly, his anger a visible aura and his words came with the power of a thousand forges, "I deserve better!"

Thorín could not stop his sharp intake of breath, "Grandfather..."

The King and his son turned their eyes upon him, a mixture of shock and embarrassment in different measures on both their faces. Thraín paused, unable to find words of either comfort for his son or scorn for his father. After a moment, he forced his chair backward enough that it toppled over and the sound reverberated in the silence. In two strides he had made it to Thorín and began to lead his shamed son by the shoulder toward the exit. This time, though, Thorín wanted to leave.

Reaching for his coat, Thorín heard his father whisper, "He cannot go on like this..."

Thorín remained silent but lifted his chin as he threw his arms into his sleeves and walked through the doors of his own volition.

* * *

_**sigindashat**_ \- grandson, formal greeting

_**A/N: Sorry this took so long, I ended up losing the original and had to backtrack for a day or two trying to get it back together. I feel pretty good about it. Let me know what you think!**_

_**-L-**_


	7. Chapter 7 - A Breath Of Air

**_A/N: I realize that it took me a very long time to get this chapter out but I hope that does not dissuade you from liking, following or reviewing! Thank you all for your support!  
_**

**_As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

* * *

**A Breath of Air**

Thorín leaned heavily on the stone balustrade, staring down the open shaft into the depths of Erebor. Countless bridges spanned across the levels between and dwarves from every walk of life milled below without a care in Arda about him. He was one of several thousand beneath this mountain and the warmth of that anonymity eventually eased his angry shaking. If ever he had been in a dark mood, this was one of them. He had no intention of letting himself continue, though, and had walked, no, _stormed_ to his usual parapet of solitude to calm himself.

Dwarves took to jeweled colors in their wardrobes, clothing and accessories alike. Golden fabric was prized as well as silver, when it came to it, but due to the rarity of such an opulent material there were few dwarrow that could afford to dress in it daily. It was rare to see such richness on a passing day, yet the varied colors of their clothing swam beneath him like a sentient prism and he regularly found himself entranced by it. Today's undulating procession, though, held no sway over his brooding and, after finding he was unable to coax himself into a relaxed state, he decided he needed to occupy his mind with something else. So, he began to walk.

Thorín was still agitated from the meeting and he tried to hold onto the pride and affection of his father while ignoring the ire of his grandfather. He could not puzzle out the reason behind the King's sudden anger when everything had been going so well. His father's words returned to him, again and again.

_"He cannot go on like this..."_

He had realized after a short time pondering that his father had been hiding something from him for a long while. Something to do with his grandfather and his irrational change in moods. It irked him that he could not know for how long he had been in the dark. He forced his fists to unclench and finally shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from repeating yet again. Having delved into the safety of his outer coat, his fingers found the other part of his stolen lunch and he removed it in a sudden hunger, biting off as much as he could fit into his mouth. Though, as he had wrenched it from his coat, a small cloth drifted to the floor behind him and caught his eye with its fluttering dance.

Thorín looked at it with curiosity, for a long moment unsure of where it had come from but, as he bent to retrieve it, the previous evening came rushing back with an intense clarity. Frerín's handkerchief had stayed with him, another reminder of the weaver he had not expected. Though it belonged to his brother, he could only associate the sight of its plain thread with the length of her arm. The feminine movement of her wrist as he had turned it to press his lips against her knuckles. The fire in her brown eyes when he had caught them with his own, her mouth slightly open as she held her breath. The color their cheeks as they had turned away, neither of them intent on further embarrassment. A shiver ran down his spine and he took a moment to regain himself.

He ran the hem through his fingers as he continued on, wondering for no good reason where the chocolate-haired dam would be at this time of day. He shook his head, dispelling that thought thoroughly, and shoved the cloth back in his pocket where he would not be vexed by it. It did remind him of Dís, though, and he changed his direction to make his way to her rooms.

He was still very frustrated and Frerín was most likely the best dwarf, besides his father, with whom he could speak in regards to the meeting. His brother was the only other person with whom he felt he could discuss such matters but he found he could not muster the desire to seek him out yet. Dwalin and Tormûnd were busy, his father and Balin were still in council and his list of possible company was down to two. Dís was the only option he was willing to pursue, cursing that the weaver had been in his mind at all.

He reached her quarters before ever wondering if she would be in but knocked firmly on her door, swallowing the last mouthful of bread just as it was opened. His sister's smiling face greeted him, followed by a warm embrace and much squealing, "You came to visit!"

Thorín felt himself smile at her arms lingering around him, his mood improving greatly at her reaction, "Is that still acceptable? Am I some harbinger of bad news, that my presence should be so surprising, _naneth_?"

Dís bantered playfully, narrowing her eyes, "That, I cannot say, _nadar_. Did you bring trouble with you?"

She peered cheekily around his shoulders, as if expecting something behind him, before raising her eyebrow for his response. He sighed, feeling himself relax, and told her plainly, "Not today. I left him in the bathhouse."

He joined her in laughter, unable to stop himself at the sound of her merriment. She embraced him again, looking into his face when they broke apart, "Is everything alright, Thorín?"

"Why would it not be?" He replied with a slight frown.

She gave him a stern look that belonged so much to his mother that his heart ached and said, "I would have to be blind to see otherwise. Did your presentation go well?"

His frown turned suspicious. "How did you know about that?"

All her seventeen years were contained in the roll of her eyes. "How are you even so daft? I had to hear of it from Trouble himself!"

He took her hands in his larger ones, lowering his face to hers as he had when she was a dwarfling and asked in a most serious tone, "Are you spying on me, sweet sister?"

She betrayed her age again by sticking out her tongue and replied, "Those are the lengths I go to in order to know how you are!"

"Does that mean you miss me?" He frowned again, pretending to pout.

If Thorín was fast, Dís was faster, for he could not defend himself from the palm she laid against the side of his head. "Of course I do, you half-wit!"

"Aah, sisterly love!" Thorin exclaimed, working his jaw as he rubbed his ear with a wounded, but pleased, glower.

Had her guardian, Mergda, not entered the room with an armful of laundry he may not have been saved the wrath his sister was prepared to unleash upon him and he scooped up the aged woman, lifting and turning, bedsheets and all. "My savior!"

The maid croaked in shock, turning to pin him with a stare that should have left him quaking at the knees once she was on her feet again, "Master Thorín! I am a dwarf! I prefer to be on the ground or in it, thank you very much! Any more of that and you'll be sending me to an early grave."

He laughed, knowing she was happy to see him despite her affront. Having had her hand in raising him since his birth, followed thereafter by his brother, he still cared for the crone nearing her two hundredth year and found security in her now safe-guarded the young Princess, as well. The old woman glared keenly in his direction and turned back to her task but Thorín did not miss the wink that she sent him before shaking out the linen over the bed.

Grinning, he went to ruffle his sister's hair. She swatted his hand away with a dangerous look in her eye and he then noticed that it was already styled for the coming celebrations. He motioned to it again, gesturing as he spoke, "I see the weaver has worked her magic?"

"The spell is complete." Dís curtseyed prettily, a smug smile on her face.

He nodded in appreciation. "It is quite the enchantment for a Princess."

She smiled back, glowing with the compliment even as he leaned forward to kiss her brow, calling her an enchanted Princes in whispered Khuzdul. She looked at him in adoration, "Will you walk with me, _nadar_?"

He bowed low over her hand, murmuring as he did, "It would be my pleasure, _naneth_."

She nodded to Mergda and then looked at him, pointedly, after he had risen from his gesture. "Do you have bread in your pocket?"

He shook his head in confusion. "No. Why?"

She shrugged and lifted her skirts to move around him. "You have crumbs in your beard. You must be hungry."

His mouth opened and closed for a moment while his cheeks heated, caught in his embarrassment. He hastily wiped his chin, grumbled an apology and gratefully accepted two freshly baked buns from her cupboard. He chewed happily while she spoke to the old woman, not bothering to listen to what was said, and wandered contentedly after her when she opened the door. He held out his elbow, which she took, and let her choose the direction they went.

Their walk was set at an easy pace, their conversation flowing without effort and, the longer they spent in each others presence, the less and less a burden their time apart became. Dís was overjoyed when he offered to escort her to her birthday celebrations, having reached an age where she could choose with whom she went. She mentioned how jealous all the other dams would be, having such a handsome dwarf at her side.

He chuckled, good-naturedly, but still shrugged off her compliment with unease, "I think you give me too much credit, Dís."

"Why would you say that? I know many dams who would trade their limbs for just a dance, _nadar_." His sister rested her head on his shoulder and he slowed his pace to accommodate her affection. He scowled at her, fondly, remembering how much he loved her strength and determination regardless of how trying she was at times.

Thorín took a deep breath and asked, "How many legless partners do you think I should be willing to dance with, exactly?"

Dís laughed at the thought but Thorín worried at the change of subject. Only the previous day had her manipulations of Frerín's social life come to light and suspicion began to grow in the back of his mind that their conversation was on the verge of a dangerous turn.

Dís justified his concern with her next words, "I am quite glad but...surprised that you have asked me. I had thought there would be another that you would have offered to take, by now."

He raised his eyebrow, looking down at her as he would when she was being mischievous, "I believe I sense a scheme, _naneth_."

Her hair swayed with her as she waved her arm, displaying her worst impression of innocence, "What_ever_ could you mean, dear brother?"

He turned his eyes away from her, choosing to ignore her rather than condone her words, but it was not for lack of effort on her part, "I only refer to your behavior this past day, Thorín. You seemed...how shall I put it? Enamored?"

He closed his eyes, willing patience to come to him, "First, Frerín, and now you..."

Her brows jumped in surprise, "Our esteemed brother noticed something like that? And mentioned it to you?"

He gave her a sharp look but said nothing, waiting for her to realize he was through with the subject. She declined, "Why do you look at me so? I am only impressed that he was so considerate of someone else."

Thorín reluctantly agreed with her on that point but remained silent. Despite feeling like a pet project rather than an elder brother, her pride of him and concern for his happiness made him warm with gladness. He considered possibly taking more of her advice, as she was showing herself to be wise beyond her years.

Dís continued, mostly to herself, "He has far too much interest in her, as of late. I thought he had taken up with that blonde twit...oh, what is her name?"

That bait he could not resist, though he tried to sound aloof, "What do you mean, 'interest in her'?"

The young lady did not seem to notice anything amiss, instead tossing her head and rolling her eyes, "'Interest' meaning 'a slight form of obsession, usually romantic in nature'. This is _Frerín_ we are speaking of, after all."

A knot formed in his stomach at her definition, his focus no longer on the direction they were taking but on the strange feeling of anger and vague jealousy that had come over him. The more he tried to push it away, the worse it became.

Dís sighed, oblivious, "He jumps from fancy to fancy like a child between feast tables. He prefers to think I am 'meddling' when, honestly, I only wish to help him find a _decent_ dam instead of the string of..._karhasalûna_ he has been parading around. I had spoken with Thríva to aide in that effort but it seems to have had an...undesired response."

Thorín considered that carefully before he replied, "So, this is a passing interest?"

Dís replied instantly, her voice lacking all surprise, "Are _you_ interested?"

Thorín snorted, trying in vain to cover for his slip up, "Do I need to be? I was merely asking your opinion on Frerín's choices! The weaver? Is she taken with this...interest?"

Dís was not fooled, "'The weaver'? Mahal save us, Thorín! You were introduced. You are allowed to say her _name_."

He was beginning to lose the calm he had developed, irritated by his own behavior, "I will say what I wish. She _is_ a weaver, it is not an insult."

He was not expecting his sister to laugh at him but she did, quite loudly. He did not know whether to smile or frown and so found himself stuck somewhere in the middle, the two of them having stopped completely to allow Dís to clutch at her waist with both hands. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked around them with his back to her, as if that would block the sound of her unguarded giggling. Luckily, no one was wandering in this area so the humiliation that reddened his face would go unnoticed for now.

It was embarrassing, to say the least, that he was so transparent. He worked with great difficulty to control his emotions and facial expressions, having believed that he had achieved complete stoicism through his years of practice. His siblings, however, seemed to be able to read him as easily as a scroll and he could not describe the annoyance that it caused him.

He scowled, waiting for his sister to begin breathing again, and finally decided he had suffered enough. He wrapped his arms around her and tickled her ribs, mercilessly, threatening to cease only when she offered an apology. He let her slip from his grasp and scamper up a nearby set of stairs, laughing madly over her shoulder as he pursued. He let go of his irritation, allowing himself the joy of the chase as they dodged around corners and sprinted down empty hallways, laughing as they had when they were both much younger. She disappeared up another set of stairs before he realized where she was leading him.

A stone archway led out onto one of Erebor's few balconies, open to the elements through another series of styled arches and pillars that allowed a view of the vast grassland between the mountain and the Mannish city of Dale. Hundreds of years before, a radical architect had decided that the mountain should have such views of their surroundings and had created a handful of areas that were rarely used. Dwarves preferred the protection of the mountain and had little interest in the outer world. There were tradesmen, hunters and diplomats, of course, that regularly traveled out the front gates but there were also children that had never seen the world of Men with their own eyes and that was how the Khazad wanted it.

When he had stumbled to a stop just inside the entrance he paused to catch his breath and used the time to look around him. The arches that held up the side of the mountain were more like windows, a thick stone wall supporting them and creating an uninterrupted bench-seat that ran the length of the area. It was large, the doorway well back from the openings to allow for use even in inclement weather. The afternoon sun shone down between the wide pillars, lighting the area so well that there was no need for a torch or lantern. He found himself glad at the sight and took a deep breath of summer air. It had been far longer than he had known since he had felt sunlight on his skin or a breeze through his hair. The reason for it brought him into a somber mood like a bucket of water dousing a fire but he did his best to leave it at the door.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed Mergda sitting peacefully on the stone bench only just joined by her charge, who was red-cheeked and grinning at him. She patted the bench next to her, allowing him the entire corner against the wall, and he halted to eye her suspiciously. She needed no words to explain his actions or thoughts, she only rolled her eyes and beckoned him again. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, looking down his nose to observe the two dams through narrowed eyes.

It was Mergda that eased his mind, "Oh, will you sit down, you stubborn boulder, and put some food in your belly."

He upheld his air of mistrust, even as he seated himself next to his smiling sister, playing as if he accepted the cheese and fruits Mergda had brought only begrudgingly. He even went as far as sniffing them tentatively before tasting anything, which had his sister clutching her sides again and Mergda glaring in amusement. Finally, he gave up the farce and bit into the soft cheese he had been offered, humming in satisfaction. They ate quietly for a few minutes, allowing the three of them a sense of peace in the whirlwind of their lives.

When the food was gone and Mergda's elderly hands had tucked the cloths out of sight, Dís gave a loud sigh, her eyes looking out into the blue sky, "This has been a wonderful day, _nadar_."

Her tone was wistful but belied a sadness he could not ignore. Thorín studied her face, so close to joyful as she leaned her cheek against an arm she had draped over the top of the wall next to her. His own hidden sorrows mirrored the expression she held, looking over their grandfather's kingdom. He wondered how she must see it - was it just grass, trees and hills to her? Or perhaps she could see it for its true value but knew it would never be hers to harness, cursed to only observe as others changed it at their whim. It made him consider that she might feel that same way about other aspects of her life, never able to make her own choices or changes. Denied the will to take chances and make her own destiny, that ability robbed from her before her birth. He chewed the inside of his lip, both their gazes caught by a passing raven in flight, and asked himself if he was empathizing with her, or merely seeing his own feelings in her.

Dís sighed again, lifting herself from contemplation and rest in one motion when she straightened, "Enough of that, brother. There are other times for reflection for it is not every day we can spend together. Let us make this count."

By the time he had turned toward her, she had handed him something he had not seen in a very long time - his harp.

He felt an overwhelming wave of melancholic nostalgia at the sight of his greatest treasure, lovingly dusted and polished as if he had never hidden it away. The wood was a rich oak, carved from neck to foot with Dwarven runes, knotwork and ravens as the sigil of his line. Thorín fought the tears that came to his eyes as he ran his fingers over the familiar designs, breathing as evenly as possible through the recollection of every scratch and dent he came across.

Thorín should have scolded himself for the tightness of his chest but the exhaustion of such an emotional day had worn through even his most stalwart defenses. His fingers trembled over the strings, hesitating to truly touch them lest he waken the suffering that lay waiting within him. So many memories...

"It has been too long since you have even held it, _magabshûn_," Mergda croaked. Her ancient eyes were filled with warm concern, a small smile molding the wrinkles in her cheek. He tried to laugh but covered his mouth to disguise a sob instead.

Dís inquired naively, "When did you last play, Thorín?"

His eyes did not move from the instrument in his lap and his voice was no louder than a whisper, "The funeral for _amâd_."

Silence weighed down on them, enveloping the sweetness of the gesture like snowfall over the last reminders of summer. Thorín ran his hand over his beard before replacing it on the strings he so longed to play, brushing them as tenderly as one would a sleeping babe. He could not ignore the tension his admission had created but knew little how to ease it, his own pain a sensation he was keeping under control with rising difficulty.

"I never have heard you play, Thorín. Would you, now, for me?" Dís' eyes were as gentle as her words and she watched him with well veiled unease.

He merely exhaled, not finding the strength to speak, "I do not think I know how anymore, _naneth_."

"Much like a weapon, an instrument is not something the hands forget how to wield, my Prince."

He looked up, allowing Mergda to pierce him with her gaze. Without a blink of her wizened eyes she continued, "You were well trained, _dashtul_. Too well, I expect, to ever forget."

His lip quivered and pressed into a sad smile that lasted the length of a breath before he looked down at the gift from his mother. Tentatively, he plucked a string and winced at the dissonant sound of long disuse. He cleared his throat and began painstakingly tuning each string by ear, unsatisfied with his progress until Mergda produced a small flute from the folds of her skirt.

She played an even note, drawing out the reedy tone until he matched it. From there, his task went more quickly and, before he knew it, his fingers were creating a music he thought he no longer possessed.

Thorín started slowly, working first on reacquainting himself with the feeling of the strings against his fingers but, when his eyes drifted closed, he began a faster, more intricate piece he had learned from his beloved teacher. His hands moved on their own, his mind adrift on the long lessons spent sitting before the fire in his father's study as his mother gently corrected his mistakes and smiled tenderly at his passion for song.

When it finished, he looked around him in slight confusion when he did not see the fire-lit rug or solid stone mantel he had expected, his mother's smiling face nowhere to be seen. Dís was staring at him with her mouth open and her delicate hand over her chest. Mergda looked to be wiping her eyes as discretely as she cared to, which is to say only enough not to upset him, it seemed.

"Oh, Thorín!" Dís moved to wrap her arms around his neck, her embrace as welcome as the sun after a cold winter. He held her with one arm, tucking his face into the crease of her neck, and gripping the harp in the other. After a long moment, they separated and smiled at one another. He could see that she wished to say something, whether to praise or soothe, he would never know because she kissed his bearded cheek instead.

Dís asked for more and a laugh escaped him. Shying away from another emotional piece, he played an upbeat dance that was common in most of the alehouses of the mountain. He had not played it before now and he was rather proud that he was able to pick out the tune from memory and add his own personal flare to it. He did not wait to be asked for another, smoothly transitioning into a tune that sparked in his mind, followed seamlessly by another until both he and Dís were singing merrily and Mergda joined in with her flute.

He did not realize that the sun was near to setting until the sounds of heavy footsteps caught their attention. The entrance of a well armored guard shattered the small world that they had created and Thorín knew he was not alone in that feeling.

The guard bowed deeply, addressing each of them in formal Khuzdul, before speaking directly to Dís, "My Princess, a raven has arrived to announce the arrival of your cousin, Dain, and his sister tomorrow morning."

Dís, still in high spirits, clapped excitedly and thanked the solider profusely before turning to her brother, "It has been so long since Nain has been to visit! I cannot wait to see her!"

Thorín grinned at the thought, Dís and Nain having been close since their births, which were only months apart. He nodded, saying, "It would do you good to spend time with such a close friend."

She smirked. "Which only means you will be left to deal with Dain."

He let out a bark of laughter, tilting his head far enough back that it rested against the stone wall behind him with a loud thud. Even as he rubbed it, he chuckled, "I will save all from the travesty of his company and take on the responsibility of keeping him entertained, have no fear."

Mergda snorted, "Come now, Thorín. He was never as troublesome as your brother."

"Aye, he was never that." He winked at the guardian, "But he came quite close."

She snorted again, crossing her arms, "Never yet have forgiven the little brat for catching my skirts on fire."

Neither of the royal children could remember if the incident had been caused by Dain or a young Frerín but they both laughed at the memory. Dís had not yet been born but she had heard the story often enough that she could tell it herself as if she had been there. Thorín had, unfortunately, been alive to experience the wrath of Mergda on his cousin and brother for years after and had come to the conclusion then to never cross the woman.

Thorín sighed, taking note of the darkening sky and said, "The moon will be up soon, little Princess. I think it well that you see yourself to bed."

Before Dís could reprimand him, Mergda rose and brushed her skirts down, agreeing, "Aye, youngin', a dwarfling like you needs her rest before the morrow. Get on, ye!"

With a last glare, Dís, too, rose and pressed her forehead to Thorín's, placing a kiss there before she made her farewells. He watched their retreating forms until they could no longer be seen. He leaned his back against the wall, his eyes on the horizon and his fingers idly plucking the strings of the harp still in his lap.

He could not place exactly when the song began to take shape but it was a long while before he sang along,

_The solid stone, grey mountains cold_  
_and richest earth their arms unfold_  
_They beckoned thee to Mandos' hall_  
_No ear can hear, no eye can see_  
_But comes a day when we must leave_  
_for all must heed the Maker's call._

_In ancient times blessed Durin's line_  
_Came forth to be and yet survived_  
_The crushing blow our Maker dealt_  
_Our kith and kin, our blood and heart_  
_Beneath these mountains far apart_  
_At the Maker's word have ever dwelt._

Thorín shut his eyes, gathering himself to continue the verse in which his voice had failed him during his mother's internment ceremony. None had faulted him for it but it still felt as an offense to her that he had not remained strong. His breathing evened as he played on, watching the stars appear above him rather than the strings. His voice still shook when he started up again, though somewhere, in the back of his mind perhaps, he heard a sweet harmony join his roughened baritone.

_With heavy tolls the bells will ring_  
_And many join the songs we sing_  
_Thy worldly vessel laid to rest_  
_Mahal shall judge with clarity_  
_Both fair and ill deeds equally_  
_Thy cares now ceased at his behest._

_May thy worthy soul e'er carry on,_  
_May thy family line ne'er be gone_  
_Peace find you in the silent stone_  
_Thy heroic feats and stories told_  
_Forever as the world grows old_  
_'Til the Maker calls his people home._

He ended with a long and beautiful flourish, wishing his mother could hear him that night for he was sure he had heard her. It had strummed through him, raising the flesh of his arms beneath the fabric of his coat, the haunting concordance of his voice and hers that felt so true, so honest, so _right_ that it left him drained.

Unshed tears clung to his lower lashes and his throat jerked when he swallowed his heartache but he knew sleep would elude him, again, this night. There was no escape from the weary sadness inside him and, perhaps, it would be easier to give in instead of waste his energy fighting that unending battle with himself. He was close to drifting into his memories when he was brought to a startling wakefulness by a woman's voice.

"Do you only play funeral songs?"

* * *

**Words of use****:**

**_karhasalûn_ \- she who desires being used**

**_magabshûn_ \- he who is treasured**

**_dashtul_ \- son-like or as a son_  
_**

_**The song is a poem that I wrote myself. It is more or less the Dwarven version of "Amazing Grace" which is rather popular at funerals, no matter who they are. I see it as something like that. Someone hears it, they can at least hum along. Thanks again for reading!**_

_**-L-**_


	8. Chapter 8 - Sanctuary

**_A/N: So, I had problems deciding where to end this chapter and decided to cut it in half, rather. Next chapter will be preparing for the birthday celebrations! To clarify beforehand, there are two Khuzdul terms you should know that will help out a lot in this chapter._**

**_nalkhûna - lady of the moon (Moon Lady)_**

**_durjamûn - mystery man_**

**_As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked._**

**_***UPDATE: As one of my reviewers mentioned, I did not credit the song contained in this chapter. It isn't mine and, as I am not a fan of plagiarism, I feel terrible for forgetting it! I first saw it on the show "Hell On Wheels" and fell in love with it. It's called "That I Should Know Your Face" as performed by Deliverance Sisters. YouTube has it, if you want some chapter inspiration. Thank you to the reader that pointed it out!***_**

* * *

**Sanctuary**

_"Do you only play funeral songs?"_

For a few long moments, Thorín was only aware of the drumming of his heart. He knew himself to be alone, for there was no possibility of someone standing in the doorway without him noticing, and he shifted in his seat in the far corner of the balcony, trying to see where the voice may have come from.

"Oh, perhaps you do not speak but only sing? I can settle for that, I suppose."

His confusion mounted as he craned his neck to examine the wall behind him, unable to spot even a crevice that might be the source. He did not wish to respond unless he knew to whom he spoke and it was proving impossible to discover the other party's location. He looked out over the wall, peering as best he could down the mountain side without dislodging the instrument in his lap but his eyes landed on naught but sheer rock.

"I hope you take requests, even if it is only sad laments you play. I also have a song in my heart, if you wish to match it."

Thorín narrowed his eyes, listening with intent interest to what she was saying. It was a female's voice, one he was sure he knew but could not place exactly. She sounded completely nonchalant, as if such an unusual conversation were the most natural thing in the world. However, he could not resist the playfulness in her voice and slowly picked out a chord to imply his agreement.

A delighted laugh drifted to his ears and it was then that he knew his companion was none other than the weaver, herself. His heartbeat quickened again from where it had begun to settle, the thought of such a clandestine meeting rather exciting to him. He wondered if she knew who _he_ was but was distracted by her singing before he dared to voice such a question.

_That I should know your face, my love_  
_Like sorrow knows the morning dove..._

Thorín forgot to breathe. He had intended to follow the melody so he could play along but the haunting quality of the music was as startling as it was pleasing. She had an even, unassuming voice and, though she did little more than carry the tune, every note was both rich and true.

_That I should hold you to my breast_  
_Come back to me is my request_

He felt surrounded by her music; the echo of her words hung about him like pipe smoke in a stagnant room. She flitted between notes with ease, her comfort with its progression evident in the smile he could hear through the veil of sadness.

_My one true love remember me_  
_when once again my eyes you see_

His fingers clung to the strings of his harp in preparation but Thorín remained frozen, held captive with his head cocked to the side and the corner of his mouth tilted upwards. His unfocused eyes stared blankly in the direction of the newly risen moon, its almost round face cascading light onto the stone balcony.

_My heart lies in a darkened place_  
_That you should know my weary face_

She had been right to call it a lament for the sorrowful threads of her song wove between the beams of moonlight like a tapestry of regret, so poignant that it could truly be felt.

_I'll search for you upon the shore_  
_To hold you in my arms once more_

Despite his silent pondering, she continued, mesmerizing him with the beauty of her grief. Such raw pain flowed through her that it melded with his own in a powerful and overwhelming way.

_I've traveled down this long hard road_  
_And I'll not ever let you go_

He did not feel that depression deepen, however. Instead, his burden lightened with the knowledge that, even though their experiences were different, the depth of their emotional wells were equal.

_That I should know your face, my love_  
_Come back to me is my request..._

She held the last notes of the song and he exhaled deeply. He spoke before the thought had been fully completed in his mind, "Your heart withholds much sorrow, _nalkhûna_."

That delighted chuckle sounded again and he would have sworn by Durin's beard that the moon itself had laughed, "Aah! The _durjamûn_ speaks!"

Thorín did his best to contain his laughter, "_Durjamûn_? Am I a mystery?"

She nearly purred, which made him blush in the dark, "You are to me! For all I know you are just a voice and a harp. I cannot even guarantee that you are not just a figment of my own imagination!"

"That would be incorrect. If anyone was a figment, it would be _you_ in _my_ imagination." He was beginning to enjoy their banter.

The woman gave out a sharp laugh, "Well, at least now I am certain that you are Khazad!"

He could not help his smile as he spoke, "I would not wish to disappoint."

"I am unable to decide if you have not." she hummed to herself, as if in consideration.

"What have I done to offend you, my lady?" he asked with false sincerity.

He could picture her with her back straight and nose in the air as she replied with arrogance, "You did not accompany me while I sang. I am quite put out."

Though he was grinning, he strummed a chord and said, "Would you like me to remedy that, _nalkhûna_?"

"No! It is too late, _durjamûn_, to amend such a a grievance!"

Thorín covered his mouth to stop from chuckling. He returned to idly plucking the strings after he had regained himself, taking on a woeful tone, "What sadness consumes me for falling out of your good graces, _nalkhûna_! How ever shall I regain them if you will not give me direction?"

She was silent for a moment, the only sound his soft playing, and he surmised that she was trying to control her own amusement for, when she spoke again, there was a tremor of laughter in her voice, "A quest, _durjamûn_!"

He paused, looking toward the moon in confusion. "A quest?"

She sniggered before adopting a grave tone, "Yes. A quest is required to prove you are worthy of such affections."

Thorín sighed, a wry smile on his face. "And what quest would your Highness require of me?"

She hummed again and he could imagine the finger she tapped against her chin in the act, "It will take many days..."

"Aye?" Thorín asked, leaning back against the wall.

She made a noise of assent. "And you will need to give me a nightly progress report..."

"Will I?" He grinned.

"Absolutely! How else will I know the extent of your efforts?"

He knew where this was leading and the prospect was far from unappealing. It brought a flame to his heart that had almost been extinguished and he found no shame in that. His light mood was unstoppable. He rested his head against the stone wall behind him, already anticipating the conversations they would have in the future.

"Will you tell me, then, what my task shall be?" He was eager to hear what she had devised.

There was a long pause before she answered, "Firstly, you shall answer any question I ask with a truth."

He considered that for a moment, unable to ignore that she had said 'a' truth, not necessarily 'the' truth. He cleared his throat, not wishing to bring it to her attention in case it could be used in his favor at a later time. Instead, he asked the next question on his mind, "Will I be allowed the same in return?"

She huffed, replying, "In all fairness, I suppose it would be acceptable."

He nodded, though it could not be seen, but had no reason to speak for she continued, "Secondly, you shall sing me a new song each night."

At this, he laughed. "A new song each night? _Nalkhûna_, this is a daunting task!"

"And one you can fulfill quite well!" she quipped back. She added after, in a more casual tone, "They dannae have to be good."

Her slip into brogue had him grinning ear to ear. "Then I have already sung one for you tonight."

She agreed, her dialect all but vanished, "Yes, but you still need to answer a question."

He shifted, settling himself more comfortably. "Alright. Ask away."

"Ah, ah, ah! We have not closed our deal! Do you find the terms agreeable, _durjamûn_?"

He smiled at the stars. "Agreeable."

"Then it is settled. Answer me this: What is your favorite color?"

His cheeks were beginning to ache but, when he went to give his response, he stopped. His answer was 'green', which had not been the case until he had met her. In his mind, he had seen the green of her dress the day before and it rose to his lips before he could truly consider it. He cleared his throat to correct himself, "Blue."

"Had to think about that, did you?" Her smile sounded predatory.

"I am only required to answer _one_ question in truth, _nalkhûna._" Thorín could barely contain his glee in denying her that one, small thing. He was not disappointed by her responding snort, picturing her crossing her arms over her chest in frustration.

"Fine. I suppose that makes it _your_ turn, now."

He pondered, considering what question he would pose. Using the same inquiry as she had would be too simple and he dearly wanted to know something profound of her, not trivial. Nothing would come to mind, though, as much as he wracked his brain for it. Suddenly, he blurted out, "Who will be taking you to the celebration tomorrow?"

Thorín snapped his mutinous mouth shut, eyes wide at himself. He held his breath, listening to any hint of her reaction to such a bold and ridiculous question. Her prolonged silence made obvious her surprise at the question, as did her response, "You are assuming that I am attending."

He rolled his eyes, unsatisfied and irked that she had not given him anything. "That is not a truthful answer, my lady."

"But it is! An observation of your narrow-mindedness and true in every way!"

It was his turn to huff, "I am not narrow-minded."

His indignation drew a ghost of laughter from her and, despite being annoyed, he found himself smiling in response to it. Her laughter, in any form, was intoxicating. He would have done nearly anything to hear it again in that moment but she interrupted him in a somber tone, "My apologies. I did not mean to anger you. I only wish not to speak on the matter."

He shrugged. "I am not angry. Only my pride is wounded."

She granted his wish, gracing him with her laughter and he lost all sense of irritation with her. She sounded cheerier when she said, "Let us change the subject, then. How fared your day?"

With a resigned sigh, he described his morning of training and the companions with whom he had become reacquainted. He remained as vague as possible, leaving names out of his narrative, but remained true to the events, nonetheless. Explaining the argument with his father and grandfather proved easier than he would have thought as he omitted entirely that it had been a council meeting. She had chuckled at his retelling of his encounters with his friends and gasped in shock at his grandfather's outburst, all while allowing him to clear the troubles of his mind without interruption.

In turn, Thorín asked the same of her, nearly honored to have her narrate her day without so much as a hesitation. He could tell that she, too, remained vague on names and events but it was difficult to be bothered by it when he had the opportunity to lounge in the timber of her voice. He lay back on the stone bench, hands beneath his head, boots crossed at the ankles as he stared off into the night sky, laughing at her stories and frowning at her misfortunes with the rapt attention of a child at bedtime. He was at ease in her presence, their shared anonymity a relief from reality without ever needing to relinquish it.

He decided it was far different than drinking ale for, while his head swarmed with the warm, heady buzz of their companionship, he was not reeling with the disorientation that came with alcohol. He felt peaceful, laughing and joking with her well into the night, the few hours they spent talking passing in their minds like minutes. Before either of them had realized, time had crept closer to the morning hours and when the bells tolled within the mountain the two almost-strangers could taste their disappointment.

Over the sound of the last peals of midnight, Thorín could still hear the remnants of their laughter but could not remember what had caused it. The silence that followed soon became deafening and he struggled to find something to fill the void which was strange to him after such plain, simple conversation. In a split second decision, he voiced that very thought.

"I think I have run out of things to say!"

The beginnings of his laughter had rumbled into his speech and, by the time he had finished his sentence, she had joined him in another bout of laughter. He was becoming used to the sound, for she had exposed him to the differences between her giggles, chuckles and even belly laughs but he feared he would forever crave more. He imagined what her face would look like after so much joy, rosy cheeks hiding dimples and earthen eyes sparkling with mischief. They gasped for air, unknowingly resting their temples against the same point on the shared wall.

"And, here, I had come to speak to the moon."

Thorín had to think about her words before he spoke. "The moon does not speak, _nalkhûna_. She only listens."

There was a shadow of smile in her reply, "Aye, that is true, _durjamûn_, and she does listen well. She has been my soul's comfort for years."

He hummed in understanding but did not comment, leaving her to her memories and sifting through his own. He knew that isolation, that same lonesome weight sat upon his chest, separating the bearer from all others, even in the midst of a crowded room. There was no happiness that could quench it, no love that could smother it, and no anger that could burn it. He knew because he had tried and here he was on the verge of another sleepless night, wondering if that weight would consume him this night or the next.

"My soul did not know comfort till now. Perhaps, I should have met you sooner."

He had spoken without guard, again, and gritted his teeth at his stupidity. Closing his eyes to contain his mental cursing, he barely heard her whisper, "I wish you had."

He savored her words, grateful yet again that she could not see him because he knew the smile he wore would have branded him a fool. In the same hushed tone she bid him goodnight, "Till we meet again, _durjamûn_."

"Tomorrow night, _nalkhûna_?" The hopeful sound of his own voice annoyed him.

There was a tittering of her laughter, though it sounded from a distance. Her voice was louder, echoing slightly, when she answered, "We will both be preoccupied, this coming night."

His heart sank until she added, "But I think we will see each other, nonetheless."

Thorín lay back on the stone bench again, one foot resting on ground and the other on the seat, next to his harp. He tucked his arm beneath his head, examining the moon upside-down with the same tenderness he would examine her face. Now that she had left, he wished he could and imprinted his memory of her features on the nearly round orb above him in an effort to see it more clearly.

_I am a fool._ he thought to himself as his imagination portrayed how she would appear when she laughed. He started counting the stars within his sight, feeling the heaviness of sleep pulling at his eyelids for the first in a long time. As he counted, part of his mind searched the emotions he was experiencing, reveling in the nearly forgotten sense of peace he had found.

No, he decided as his eyes drifted shut, he would not forgo any of his nightly visits to this sanctuary. If peace could be found here, he would use it to his fullest advantage.

_And if the weaver comes along, so be it._ was his last thought before sleep overtook him.

Thorín awoke not long after with a pain in his back and a set of unfamiliar hands shaking his shoulders. Three guards stood above him, nervous faces mostly hidden by their helmets but the relief in their eyes was as clear as day. Day which was breaking all too soon.

"My Prince, we have been searching for you. Are you well?"

The guard that had woken him stepped back several paces as Thorín leapt from the bench with sudden surprise, no doubt thinking a swift punishment would be upon him for touching royalty. He could not decipher which had addressed him but none would dare meet his eye.

"I am fine! Why have you been searching for me?" He realized too late that he sounded angry and ran a hand through his hair to calm himself. He asked, more gently, "Is everything alright? Has something happened?"

They looked at each other and stumbled over their words trying to explain, "No...well...uh..."

The one that had woken him finally spoke up, shuffling back even further, "Your father asked if you had...been to bed. Last night."

Thorín groaned, wiping the sleep from his features. The guard continued, haltingly, "No one had seen you and...your chambers were empty. The Princess directed us here..."

He nodded, thanking them and dismissing them with a promise to return to his rooms right away. He straightened his clothing and gathered his instrument, marching after their retreating forms at a slower pace. Carrying his harp at dawn to return to his rooms was a new experience for him. He wondered if it would happen again and a small smile crept onto his face as he passed through his doorway.

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_**A/N: Thank you so much for following and reading! Your reviews are so much appreciated! Next chapter up soon.**_


	9. Chapter 9 - A Feast for the Eyes

**_A/N: A year! A whole year has passed between posting chapters and I am *SO SORRY* that you had to wait that long! Not only did i have the hardest time writing this chapter (what with re-writing it completely twice) I also discovered, went through and completed a pregnancy in that time! Of course, my son is 4 months old now so I really have no excuse now to keep you all waiting!_**

_**I would like to thank all the wonderful people who have followed, favorited and reviewed so far! You are amazing, thoughtful and patient people. Thank you for giving me the motivation to keep going. Read on.**_

_**As always, I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, is more than likely an oversight of the author and hopefully not malicious.**_

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**A Feast For The Eyes**

Thorín surveyed the Great Hall with a feeling of contentment and satisfaction which had little to do with the fullness of his belly, though that was as good a reason as any. The hour neared sunset and the celebration of his sister's birth-day was only now warming up, despite having started at mid-day. He was proud of its progress and felt an immense relief when the pressure of his speech had been lifted. The first feast was done, though there were many whom continued to mill around the tables to graze, his speech had been well accepted and in a short time his father and grandfather would arrive for the evening meal with their kin from the Iron Hills.

All was well, for the moment, and so he allowed himself a heavy sigh, a faint smile and another ale.

He stepped down from the raised head table and began wandering through the hall, making sure to avoid large groups of nobles he may get pulled into, as well as the dwarves and dams who were well into their celebratory cups. The crowd was just thick enough to make a swift escape impossible but sparse enough that a drunken party-goer could still lurch forward and knock him over. He held his ale mug close to his chest, eyes wary and step cautious but amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth, unchecked.

It had been a good day, he decided, when it was all said and done. After speaking briefly to the guards on the balcony that morning, he had sprinted to his chambers where his father awaited him with a surprise guest - his cousin Dain, as flame-haired and boisterous as ever. They traded good-natured insults and, when Dain grinned, Thorín saw that a prominent lower tooth had gone missing since the last time they had seen each other. After his father had left them to their own devices, Dain had insisted on joining Thorín in his daily training, shortened though it may be. Dain would not be able to remain long, either, due to the mandatory tour through the mountain and mines he would take with the King as proxy for his father, Lord of the Iron Hills. Thorín did not envy his cousin in the least, even though it was only the guise of a formality that would mostly be spent discussing Iron Hills business, and was more than happy to share his own retreat from royal duties, if only for a short while.

They had met up with Dwalin and Tormûnd and exchanged not-so-pleasantries in as polite a manner as soldiers do, which is to say the insults were harsher and more keenly intentioned and no apologies or concessions were offered. Tormûnd had always found a way to get along with Dain but Dwalin had not gotten over some slight Dain had offered him years past and the two would not see eye-to-eye on anything. It remained mostly ignored and time sped by without incident.

Afterward, Thorín had quickly bathed and readied himself, choosing a familiar and unembellished style for his beard and hair, oiling and braiding them carefully before attaching stately, silver beads to the ends of each plait. He was required to wear a suitable outfit for the celebration, a task he had simplified many years before and could accomplish with hardly any deliberation. A thick coat and vest made of fabric in the royal blue of Durin's house, covered in a pattern of embroidered silver ravens was the second of two event ensembles he owned. His mother had commissioned it for him when he had earned his warrior rank and he had worn it to nearly every function since, not only in memory of her but also out of sheer laziness.

It was understood that Dís was given dress after dress to keep up with her growing body and that was forgiven due to the feminine standard to keep up with fashion but Thorín had never much been interested in it. Not the way his brother had, in any case, for Frerín had a different outfit for every day, it seemed. Thorín, to put it mildly, did not have the interest or luxury of dithering over his wardrobe and, if that made him predictable, he had even less concern harbored for it.

Now, as he stepped passed jeweled ladies and lords, flanked by fur-laden dwarves and dams, he wondered how little it mattered to the crowd that surrounded him. True, some noble would more than likely comment on it and start some rumor or rude observation that would be whispered from one side of the mountain to the other, but Thorín found he could not manage even annoyance with the thought. He was the Prince. They should be thankful he had bothered with clothing at all.

He chuckled into his mug at that, swallowing the mouthful that remained and gestured for a refill from the pitcher carried by a passing serving dam. His polite smile waned as she leaned so far forward he had no choice but to view the measure of her neckline. It was as obvious as it was unnecessary, considering his height, and made her even less desirable. She was pretty, he admitted, but overt and salacious, so he nodded his thanks without comment and she disappeared into the crush of bodies, swaying wide hips for no one in particular. He shuddered, internally, trying to shake the sudden rush of unease that large groups of dwarves made him feel and decided to seek out more comfortable waters. He continued walking, searching for his friends or his siblings to anchor him in this sea of strangers.

He paused to allow an inebriated couple to stumble past, reminded suddenly of his brother, and resolved that perhaps Frerín was not someone he wished to find at the moment. On the other hand, he also supposed it would be better than being discovered, alone, by some noble or matron, forcibly drug into the waiting hands of an even larger group of them and heartlessly tortured with questions about his personal life until he was either dead or rescued. The idea made him shiver again and he edged carefully around a loud gaggle of females, turning his head away from them and using his mug to hide his face lest they look his direction.

As if Mahal had heard him, his siblings appeared in the crowd before him, Frerín whispering something into Dís' ear, his broad back an open invitation to a mildly disgruntled older brother. Though it was not the first time he had spoken with them that day, it would be the first time they had not been limited by their official capacity and managed to all three be within arms reach of one another. Thorín finished his ale in one go and tucked the mug into a pocket.

Frerín was taken completely by surprise.

"Grrphff! Gerr'off mer!" Frerín had difficulty moving his jaw with Thorín's arm wrapped around his head the way it was. It was understandable that his Common Tongue was currently lacking in substance, "Lermerger!"

Thorín chuckled, giving in to temptation and rubbing the knuckles of his free hand roughly into his brother's finely dressed locks a few times, "Your communication skills seem meager this day, brother dear."

An offensive phrase of Khuzdul slipped from beneath Thorín's arm.

Dís covered her grin with a gloved hand which had Thorín fighting down laughter, "You can do better than that! Where have all your speech lessons gone?"

There was a muffled growl and Frerín went very still, doubled over with his face hidden in his brother's coat, but his next words were quite clear, "It would please me _greatly_ if you released my _head_."

Thorín winked at his sniggering sister before letting Frerín stumble free of his hold. The blonde worked his head around, rubbing his chin with narrowed eyes and muttering something foul under his breath. Thorín pretended to pick something off his cuff.

When he looked up, his sister was battling against both amusement and suspicion, "Someone is in a good mood!"

Thorín shrugged with his mouth, "Is it so wrong to be merry at a celebration?"

His siblings snorted in disbelief but, predictably, Frerín was the one to voice his opinion, "Not wrong at all, unless you are _our_ brother, who passionately despises all gatherings unrelated to battle."

Thorín raised an eyebrow but could find no argument against the statement.

Frerín leaned toward him, eyes narrowed, "Are you truly my brother or has some magic left a doppelganger in his place?"

Thorín made an effort to scowl, which was enough proof for Frerín as to his identity, "Sadly, that look tells me all I need to know. But what _possibly_ could have happened to lighten your spirit, my real brother? It is as if you are someone else entirely."

Thorín sniffed and replied haughtily, "I slept."

Neither of them looked particularly enlightened by his confession, their matching bland expressions almost comical. Frerin answered in a dry tone, "How wonderful of you to join us on the mortal plane, brother.

"Thoughtful." Dis added.

"Oh, yes," Frerín agreed. "Very considerate of you. "

"I should think so." Thorín quipped, nose and chin held regally high, "Well more than you lot deserve."

Dís turned her head slightly in Frerín's direction, not taking her eyes off Thorín, "I think that was a joke."

"You may be right," Frerin whispered without turning, frozen as if movement would cause his suspicions to take flight. "What should we do?"

"You have me! Should we sedate him?"

"Possibly. However, he may be drunk. Thorín, are you drunk?"

Thorín pondered giving Frerín a matching pair of black eyes. Something in his expression must have given his thoughts away.

"Nay, he is sober." Disappointment tinged Frerín's voice. "Sedation will be required."

Dís could barely contain her scornful laugh, "Yes, of course! Because I come prepared to sedate dwarves at _every_ birthday party. Give me but moment to fetch my sleeping potion."

Thorín stifled a chuckle as Frerín rounded on her with mock incredulity, "You have a sleeping potion and neglected to tell me? How dare you!"

"Hold on," Frerín paused, then added, "What, exactly, were you planning on doing with it?"

The Princess never missed a beat, "Why, in case I am stuck in a boring conversation with one of the many long-winded matrons of Erebor, dear brother. Not every monologue consisting solely of possible suitors has merit, you know. A few drops in their wine and I would be free as a bird."

Frerín opened his mouth and shut it again, turning back to Thorín, "She's a genius. We've raised a genius."

"Aah, do not let her fool you, brother," Thorín muttered with a sage frown. He was rather impressed with her plan and wished he had thought of it himself, "Her true game is obviously to kidnap unknowing young dwarrow and keep them as her unwilling slaves."

Frerín gasped dramatically, clinging to his brother's shoulder even as Dís managed to look scandalized, "An _evil_ genius!"

"Tis true," Thorín sighed, "We have done too well."

"I would have to agree."

Thorín could feel the blood rush from his face even before he recognized the voice. It had been haunting him since she had left him on the balcony the night previous. Now, she would see him and know what kind of fool he was. He knew, instinctively, she was mere inches away from him and he deliberately focused on controlling his erratic heartbeat.

Dís squealed and dashed forward to wrap her arms around her, "_Thríva!_"

The dam chuckled at her suddenly full arms, squeezing her with the same ferocity in return. "Och, poppet, yer crushing my vitals!" Her smile implied that she did not mind and the hug lasted a few moments longer.

Dís pulled back, eyes shining and cheeks glowing, "You came! I am so pleased to see you, you cannot know!"

Thríva beamed down at her, brushing a stray hair behind the Princess' ear in a very motherly fashion. "Of course I came, you silly girl!" The weaver's nose became level with the girl and her tone dipped to conspiratorial, "I was invited, was I not?"

"Twice over, I believe!" Frerín added, his own smile verging on wicked. "You would have even had an escort."

Thorín was hit with a roiling sense of anger he definitely would not identify as possessive or jealous. Instead of acknowledging that confusing set of feelings, he concentrated on calming his churning stomach, staring hard at one of the jewels sewn into Dis' skirt near her knees.

The intensity with which he clenched his teeth almost masked the dispassionate reply, "Yes, but having already been invited, I felt it more convenient to come alone."

Thorín would have had to have been deaf to miss the implication and relaxed slightly. Frerín was not dissuaded, his laughter proof that he had not taken offense to her statement. Though he continued to state singularly at the same jewel, Thorín could hear his brother's delighted smile, "All the better for an unattached dwarf!"

Before anything else could be said to his comment, Frerín changed the subject, his tone switching to something more conversational, "May I say, dear Thríva, you look absolutely gorgeous this evening."

Thorín did not dare to look but noticed her bob of courtesy from the corner of his eye. She wore something red, he thought. Her voice was even and controlled, "My thanks to you, Prince Frerín. Though, I pale in comparison to our lovely Princess, I'm sure."

Thorín was too distracted to listen to Frerín's simpering reply, as amused as he should have found himself by his brother's unguarded floundering. He was unable to concentrate on the uncomfortable back-tracking of his sibling because she was wearing red. And not just any, run-of-the-mill, inexpensive shade. It was a brilliant ruby red and it suited her very well.

At first, he did his best to avert his attention from her completely, until he had calmed his surprise and discovered something worth the breath to say to her. However, his sight was drawn to her like a fire in the night and he found that he had no control over them in his curiosity.

The hem drug across the floor and he noticed, with some interest, there was no decorative border there. When she shifted or turned, the dress moved with her, a scarlet waterfall that did nothing to detract from her shape. It rested comfortably on her hips without a belt or garter to bind it there, obviously created with her in mind but the lack of belt showed how narrow her frame was, almost skeletal when compared to the average dwarf, but he found it intriguing instead of unattractive.

The fabric was rich, yes, but the style of the dress was too simple to have been professionally crafted - notably, because it lacked the large amounts of adornments or furs normally worn by dwarven maids. He surmised that she, or someone she knew, must have sewn it for it held an intimate and personal quality about it. There was an intricate design embroidered into the bodice and, where perhaps jewels would be on anyone else, simple metal discs had been sewn. He wondered if she had done the work herself. She was a weaver, after all and the tasks usually went hand-in-hand.

By the time his visual examination had reached her shoulders, which were only a shadow away from being bare, he realized he had been staring and that she had been watching him do so with fairly colored cheeks. He met her eyes, eyes filled with laughter and pride, and knew he should be reeling with shame for being so inappropriate. He should, at that moment, have apologies for his lack of restraint spilling from his mouth, along with promised reparations as a dwarrow of his stature well should.

Thorín opened his mouth with the intention of doing so, including an excuse to put some distance between himself and the baffling effect she had on him, but what came out was, "My lady, you do look wonderful."

His voice was pitched lower than usual and his words had rushed out of him all at once in one, heavy breath. He was unsure how it appeared to anyone else because he took no notice. He was too enthralled by the way her eyes lit with an inner fire and how slowly, deeply she inhaled at his compliment. There was a thickness to the air between them, a thrilling tension that he could not truly describe. She curtsied in response, lowering her gaze only long enough to be considered respectful before she met his eyes with an intensity that made his blood sing.

"Lady Thríva, you look..._overheated_." Frerín sounded grim, though he held out his arm with a smile, "Perhaps you would accompany me for a drink?"

Thríva blushed more, only allowing herself a nod as if she did not trust herself to speak. Thorín blinked thoroughly to clear his head of whatever spell he had been under and shuffled backwards a step to allow her room to pass. As she reached out for his brother, who seemed to be glaring in Thorín's direction, she whispered to no one in particular, "The same to you, _durjamûn_."

After the searing heat of the moment before, Thorín suddenly felt frozen where he stood, the night previous whirling through his mind with enough speed to take his breath away. She knew his identity, perhaps had known all along! Still momentarily befuddled, a smile graced his lips as he watched the pair walk away. He smiled at the thought of how devious she was, smiled to think how candid she had been, despite knowing she spoke to royalty, and smiled for the freedom he felt at her wish to continue. Their backs disappeared in the crowd and yet he wondered, looking down into the empty ale mug that appeared in his hands. He considered the idea of following them, rolling the horn vessel between his palms with a far away look in his eye.

His musing was stopped short by a small hand slapping against the back of his head.

"Ow," Thorín muttered, pitifully, eyeing his sister with pain, "What ever did I...?"

Dís was livid, her hushed tone not quite containing her desire to scream at him, "What in name of Arda are you thinking, you _drooling rockrunt_?"

As Crown Prince of the Kingdom Under the Lonely Mountain, Thorín could handle many situations and suffer a wide variety of afflictions with trained, stoic mastery, but the wrath of his sister was not one of those things. She had a dragon's fury when provoked and, though she was normally as tame as a lamb, her true strength hid itself behind glimmering eyes. Now, the very eyes he tried to avoid, held no mirth and he did his best not to cower.

Dís thrust her fists onto her hips, then thought better of it and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her petite nostrils flared, eyes wide and gleaming with anger. She opened her mouth to speak then snapped it shut again, looking away from him in frustration before exhaling to calm herself. She ignored Thorín's flinch, stepping up next to him and pulling him along with her as she stormed away from the scene of his idiocy. She ground her teeth together, as if the grimace on her face could pass for a genuine smile, and spoke to him barely moving her lips.

She gazed at the crowd around them, "Beloved brother, I would very much like to believe you are not intentionally trying to upset my celebrations. Your love for me runs deeper than a vein of Mithril, or so you once told me, which would make it very strange for you to make such efforts against me on my own name day."

Confused, Thorín wisely remained silent.

Dís continued, articulating her words in annoyance, refusing to look at him despite the way he watched her out of the corner of his eye, "It would also be very strange for a noble Dwarf, let alone a Prince, to be staring at an _unwed_ dam in such a way that it may damage her fragile reputation, if you perhaps see my point?"

When it was clear he did not, she huffed in exasperation, "Because some dwarf might think you had intentions for that dam and begin telling others that she, a peasant, has ideas of claiming the Crown Prince as her next conquest. Which would damage her far more than you, dear brother, I assure you."

Thorín bit his tongue and cleared his throat, beginning to understand her ire. "I might be swayed by your reason, _naneth_."

Dís snorted and repeated him under her breath before continuing, "I had hoped as much, dear brother."

She stopped him, pulling on his arm until he faced her. He did so, warily, prepared for more anger but was surprised to see a worried look upon her features. He waited for her to speak, taking her small hand in his to show he was paying close attention. She gazed at him for a moment longer, brows knit as she searched his face for some answer, he could not say. She sighed, either tired or resigned.

"You realize she will be scrutinized by everyone under this Mountain? Anyone that sees you together will see her as a potential Queen and judge her by her past, her status, her dress, her actions..." She sighed again, looking around them for a moment before continuing, "There is far more at stake for her in this, Thorín, and she is a beloved friend of mine. I would not see her damaged by some passing fancy, even if it is yours."

Thorín glanced at her sideways, an edge to his voice, "When did I make such intentions known? There is nothing to it, no intentions to be had. Yet Frerín is free to pursue her in any way he sees fit? Only because I am Heir and he is a second son?"

"Keep your lies, Thorín." Dís spoke flatly, emotionlessly, "I am not so blind as you."

"In any case, yes, there are more expectations upon an Heir than his lesser siblings. However," Dís conceded with clear annoyance, putting a stop to any retort, "his attentions are far from appropriate. My blood he may be but it does nothing to lessen my dislike of him some days." Thorín did not disagree and nodded slightly in her direction to indicate he understood, her dismissal of him notwithstanding.

Dís grimaced, as if nothing happened, admitting with reluctance, "She is not so fond of Frerín, _nadar_. There is little more I can do in her favor, though I have tried. She has been polite, despite his efforts, but he persists when he should not. She tells me I need not worry for her and that she can handle unwanted advances on her own but I do worry, despite her assurances. And when I worry with one brother..."

"You would not wish to do so with another." Thorín finished for her with another nod of understanding. He looked at their hands and pondered what she had revealed. A sudden frustration with Frerín bloomed in his chest as he considered. Without looking up, he asked in as even a voice as possible, "He persists against her wishes?"

Dís nodded, exhaling through her nose, annoyance clear once more. A cloud must have passed over Thorín, for Dís suddenly narrowed her eyes.

"Brother..." she warned.

"How often?" Thorín cut her off before she could finish scolding him. Her young eyes aged considerably as she weighed her response. When it seemed that she would not give in, he sternly repeated his request, "How often, Dís?"

She seemed to swell with indignation, "Now you will listen to me, Thorín Thraínson! You will _not_ begin an argument at a celebration for all to see!"

In this, however, he did not retreat. For perhaps the first time in her life, he resisted her displeasure with his own. "Now _you_ will listen to _me_, Dís Thraínsdaughter."

She held her ground, though her eyes widened at the low rumble of thunder that was his voice. Seeing that he had her attention, he concluded, "I will not stand for a dam to be treated as such under this mountain, no matter their status. The line of Durin will not be known for their impropriety. Do you hear me?"

Dís stared at him with her lips pressed together tightly, quietly awed by what she had just heard. She drew herself up after a few moments, the lengthening silence drowned out by the roar of merrymaking that surrounded them, squaring her shoulders as if she were anywhere near the same height. "Promise me that you will not fight with him today."

Even as Thorín opened his mouth to speak, she quickly added, "Tomorrow, a month from now, none will care. Only, not today. Not in front of all these..." She waved an absent hand around them, "...people. That is all that I ask of you."

"Will you answer me if I give you my word?" Thorín felt his resolve weakening at the sight of her pleading eyes. She nodded and he relaxed visibly. "Aye, then."

She raised her brow at him, expectantly, and he rolled his eyes, "I swear by the Mountain I shall not speak to our brother of the matter until the sun rises."

Dís nodded, her lips a thin line again, but uttered in all seriousness after some hesitation, "Six times in a fortnight."

She was forced to squeeze his fingers nearly to the point of breaking to stop him from tearing away from her in search of their errant sibling, reminding him, "By the Mountain, Thorín! You swore by the Mountain!"

So, at his sister's rather violent insistence, he ceased his efforts to leave her side. Reluctantly, he followed where she pulled him, though his thoughts still dwelt on a certain red dress and storm grey eyes sought for the blonde Prince. She cursed him but he heard none of it, his mind muddled with righteous outrage and the remnants of the heat that had passed between he and the weaver. Perhaps he was more biased than he let on but his words were true. He would not let his brother drag her name through the dirt anymore than he would allow theirs.

He was deposited in front of an ale bar and pushed harshly toward it with a few more unlady-like oaths. He plodded toward it, catching sight of a dark mowhawk next to an orange tuft of hair over the heads of the dwarves, changing the course of his path so he could distract himself from the gripping urge to hunt down and throttle the second Prince.

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**_Translations:_**

_**naneth - sister (implied younger)**_

_**nadar - brother (implied older)**_

**_durjamûn - mystery man_**

**_Also, let me thank The Dwarrow Scholar for all the work and effort put into his research!_**


	10. Chapter 10 - The Celebrations Continue

_**AN: I do not own the characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien. The other characters, personalities and dialogue contained here within are solely my own and based loosely on the aforementioned author. Any plagiarism, intended or not, will be thoroughly and passionately disliked.**_

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**The Celebrations Continue**

"So." Tormûnd slammed down his ale mug after having drained it, making the other empty mugs scattered between the three of them jump and skitter across the rough wooden table top. "Let me get my bearings."

Thorín arched his brow, quenching his throat in a more civilized gulp, and looked to Dwalin in a silent question. The bulky warrior raised his own mug to his lips, his brushed mohawk gleaming in the torchlight as he shook his head.

"Yer brother, Mahal bless him, is an idiot. Thriva...is an idiot. And _yer_ an idiot." Tormûnd punctuated this with a loud burp.

Thorín did his best not to glare, "That is not..."

Dwalin interrupted his denial with a belch of his own, finally speaking up, "Aye, that 'bout sums it up, I'd say."

"Thank you for your valued opinions," Thorín grumbled, mostly to himself.

Tormûnd slammed a fist down, rattling the mugs again. "Ye cannae expect us the keep the truth from ye!"

"He's right, Thorín," Dwalin stated, calming their friend momentarily, "If it were one of us ye'd be the first to say it plain."

"Explain, then, how _I_ am an idiot!" Thorín exclaimed, indignant. After a moment, he added, "Or Thriva."

"Cos' yer both blind as bats!" Tormûnd roared over the noise that surrounded them, nearly standing until Dwalin shoved him into his seat again by the shoulder.

"Shut yer gob," Dwalin muttered in annoyance.

The Annoyance himself replied, "But it's the truth! Ye dannae see it, brother? He's been moonin' fer DAYS!"

Dwalin calmly picked up his drink and raised it to his lips without comment, allowing the orange-headed dwarf to continue in a quieter tone, "So damned distracted it's thrown off his whole fighting style. Disappointing, really."

"Mediocre," Dwalin agreed.

"Yet you are only now mentioning it to me?" Thorín inquired, ignoring their jabs and reassessing his own behavior in the previous days.

The two warriors across from him looked at one another in confusion, Tormûnd speaking for them both. "We thought ye knew?"

When Thorín only stared at them expectantly, Dwalin added, "Are ye sayin' ye had no idea that this..."

"Witch," Tormûnd supplied between drinks.

"..._weaver_ turned ye into a damned fool?" Dwalin finished, concentrated fully on Thorín's reaction. His brows furrowed, his frown deepened but overall the Prince only looked confused and deigned to speak. At this, Dwalin rolled his eyes and spoke into his ale. "Ye truly _are_ an idiot."

Before Thorín could properly respond with the scathing words prepared to spill from his lips, one long tone sounded from the trumpets at the hall doors, announcing the arrival of the royal party and their Iron Hill entourage. Knowing it was his cue, he huffed at his friends and stood. He waited a moment longer but, when they said nothing, departed with a rude gesture. He made his way to the dias and their bellowing laughter followed him.

The crowd was turned toward the approaching group, faces smiling and curious, ignorant of his efforts to wind between them. Thorín scanned the room, unintentionally searching for a red dress in the crowd as he passed. His heart soared and plummeted several times when his eyes tricked him into seeing some snatch of color. By the time he stepped onto the carpeted platform, he was completely distracted by thoughts of the weaver.

Thorín brooded over his behavior in the last several days and did his best to identify what effect those feelings played in his interactions with others. He lingered on several moments when he had felt that peculiar tug in his chest - the way her hand had felt in his, the heat that radiated from her when he had kissed her knuckles, how drawn he had been to the silhouette beneath her shift at the bathhouse. He found it strange how clearly he could remember these small moments, becoming increasingly worried about his own mental state.

Arms crossed behind his back, he forced himself to focus on the royal party greeting his sister with warmth and kindness, cursing the quickness of their arrival. He knew it was a direct result of his distraction and it frustrated him further to realize the depth of his problem. There was no room for such complication in his life and an end would need to come of it, soon. He decided he would need to deliberate further when he was alone before he could find a remedy for such confusion.

From behind him he heard the approach of the younger Prince and turned his head slightly to judge what mood he would be dealing with now. Frerín beamed, sauntering across the platform to stand in his place next to his brother, fairly bouncing as he came to a stop. Thorín felt intrigued and vexed in the same moment.

He was not of the particular mind to speak to Frerín just yet, but whatever had put the golden-haired dwarrow in such a gleeful state was quite troublesome to think on. Instead of indulging his brother's need for attention and repressing the desire to throttle him, Thorín turned to watch Thraín embrace his sister, an unprecedented show of public affection.

Yet again, his brother was the one to voice his bewilderment.

"Do you see what I see, _nadar_?" Frerín asked in a frantic whisper, leaning toward Thorín's ear. "That must be the first time he's done that to any of us in the last eighteen years!"

Thorín grumbled, "This is not the time or place to mutter under your breath, brother."

"And, yet, here we are."

It took a heated glare, but once Frerín noticed Thorín's annoyance, the younger straightened and remained silent.

It was not that Thorín disagreed with him, for he felt that his brother's observation was quite true. He, too, felt the same shock at the sight of his father's unusual behavior and had been thinking much the same. It was bizarre to see Thraín show that much emotion in a public place, let alone to one of his children, in front of their King. Thorín knew better than to question his father or grandfather as their actions were above reproach. However, it was his place to tell his brother to keep his fat mouth shut and this was definitely a time for him to enforce it.

Thorín decided the next time his brother spoke, he would ensure that Frerín regretted it.

Before he could further consider how he would enact such a punishment, he needed to bow and greet his grandfather. In an instant, he was no longer Thorín the brother and friend but instead Thorín, son of Thraín, son of Thror, Crown Prince Under the Mountain. He stood taller, shoulders straighter, face once more a mask of stone. It was as if he had never enjoyed a moment of his own freedoms, never left his father's side in the council chambers. He became the son his grandfather had always wanted because it was expected of him, all without batting an eye.

Thraín, dressed in his royal finery, rested a large hand of the shoulder of each of his sons, grinning rosily. Thorín shared a confused look with Frerín, noticing his brother was of the same opinion, from his subtle gape. Thraín, in all his happiness, did not notice.

Thorín looked for any visible clue on his father's person that would explain his current bearing but nothing was out of the ordinary. His frame appeared to have grown from their last meeting, taking up more space than Thorín was used to. The family gathered together on the dias for a brief moment before the feast, children huddled cautiously around their father.

Thraín's normally booming voice held a tender softness as he beamed down on his daughter, "_Nathith_, you have grown so much! A young maid stands where my wee babe should be!"

She ducked her head with a smile, nervous to have her father's full attention, "Thank you, _adâd_. I am pleased to have made you proud."

She would not meet his eye until he hooked a knuckle under her chin, pulling her gaze up from his shoes. Thraín, son of Thror, hunched his broad shoulders to see her better, "I could never be prouder."

At this he tipped his forehead into hers and spoke, lowly but clearly, in Khuzdul, "_I cherish you. I keep you. You are my child._"

Thorín felt his heart catch in his throat at his father's actions but kept his face neutral. The words came from the Khuzdul naming ceremony performed after the birth of every dwarven child, one that Thraín had only half-heartedly partaken in for Dís due to the death of his wife. Thorín had been unable to attend and Frerín had not been old enough to participate in the ceremony, otherwise one of them would have taken Thraín's place. Both Thorín and Frerín would proudly have claimed her as their blood and kin under the Mountain, if only to spare their father the heartache. Hearing Thraín say the words now, heavy with the meaning that should have been bestowed at the ceremony years ago, caused all of his children to pause with emotion.

Though he remained stalwart in his Prince's facade, Thorín felt more adrift in confusion than before. Their father cared deeply for his children, of that Thorín had no doubt. However, since his sister's birth, Thraín would best be described as "distant" rather than "affectionate" or "sentimental". Though Frerín had become angry toward Thraín over the last decade and Dís had never truly known her father, Thorín had been there to witness Thraín's struggle to overcome the Wasting Sickness. To his eyes, it was as if Thorín were watching a stone statue come to life.

"Come now, children!" Thraín's voice returned to a normal, deafening volume, "We have a celebration to begin!"

When Thraín and Dís were out of earshot, Frerín leaned toward his brother and whispered in both reverence and apprehension, "Is _he_ drunk?"

Thorín shook his head in annoyance, "I prefer to think not."

Frerín stared at a serving girl that passed, the tables behind them being filled with foods for the feast, a smile frozen on his lips, "He has never acted like this. Not in all her years. Why has he started now?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it is he who has been replaced with a doppleganger, not I."

Thorín had said it in jest, referring to their earlier conversation but Frerín refused to allow him to become distracted. "This is serious, Thorín! Do you not find this serious?"

In honesty, Thorín did not wish to concern himself with it. He watched the procession of food making its way to the tables instead of answering, letting Frerín whisper himself further into a conspiracy of his own making. There was a long moment after the blonde finally quieted before Thorín spoke, "It is my hope that our father has finally come to his senses and ceased mourning our mother. Eighteen years were long enough. It is far past time for him to come back to us for more than a brief visit."

Thorín continued before Frerín could start in again, "Make peace with your thoughts, Frerín, for you worry yourself into falsehoods. Think the best of him and allow his return without question, for he has traveled a difficult, dark path to reach us again."

Thorín could see the war of emotions being waged in Frerín's mind through the minute expressions that crossed his face. Frerín had long held their father in contempt for leaving them to raise themselves, and Thorín was unsure his brother would be able to forgive easily. Frerín had not been witness to Thraín's battle with the wasting sickness as Thorín had. Instead, he had been left wondering if his entire family had abandoned him. Thorín had eventually been able to mend the rift between the two of them, but it was apparent that Thraín had not made the same effort.

Frerín stood, eyes narrowed, as he watched their father taking his seat next to Dís at the head table. Thraín and Dís were jovial, smiling and laughing, which seemed to anger Frerín all the more. Thorín grasped Frerín by the arm and steered him toward their seats on the opposite side of the King, hoping he would be distracted by the feast long enough to calm down.

On the other side of the table, Dain and the royal party seated themselves next to the king, his cousin far enough away that he would need to yell in order to have a conversation but close enough to Thror to remove that as a possibility. Thorín was happy with the arrangement for, while he loved his cousin dearly, the dwarf was rather obnoxious in the right mood.

As the meal wore on, the celebrations became louder, more exuberant. Musicians could not be ushered onto the floor fast enough, and the participants were dancing in the aisles between tables well before the feast was cleared away. Though Thorín detested dancing, he did find the antics of his people amusing, and it lightened the heaviness of his responsibilities to watch them enjoy themselves.

Between ignoring Frerín's dour mood, hedging conversation with his cousin, and periodically eyeing the interaction of Thraín and Dís, Thorín still searched for the weaver. He did his best to remain covert, only raising his eyes for moments at a time before finding something to focus on, but each time his search returned nothing, the next glance lasted a little longer.

As the tables were moved off the dance floor, Thorín sat back in his chair and tried to relax. The turbulence of his moods was beginning to exhaust him and he used the peace to let his mind wander, if only for a moment. It was not long at all before the musicians began plucking their lutes and fiddles, the flute and pipes hooting shrilly while the odd beats of drum drew him out of his reveries.

During his moment of inattentiveness, dams from every corner of the mountain had begun to gather on the floor, preparing for the first dance of the evening. Even Dís, the dam of the night, made her way to the center of the floor. What he did notice was a dam in a red dress being drug behind her. A hush came over the crowd in anticipation, as if the mountain itself held its breath.

With a crash, the song started and the dancers' skirts created a whirlwind of color to accompany the raucous tune. They spun and clapped, steps hidden beneath layers of fabric and hems skipping as they picked up their feet. The song had no words but joyous shouts rang out as the dancers became comfortable with the movements.

The dance was very common for gatherings and Thorín was well aware of its purpose. Primarily, single dams were encouraged to dance at least in this first dance to show their status of eligibility. Of course, married dams joined in, too, but it was a general rule that this particular dance was avoided for at least the first ten years of a marriage. Thorín also knew there would be a similar dance intended for the unmarried dwarrow later on and his father and brother would nag him endlessly to join. The thought almost ruined his enjoyment.

Thorín, as a matter of principal, did not dance. It was not that he lacked the skill but the desire. For this, he had very deep-seated reasons that he would not relinquish and had not danced at any formal or casual celebration since he had come of age. He refused to be put on display, dangled like some golden carrot in front of a hungry mob of noble dams just waiting to wriggle onto a throne. It turned his stomach to even consider presenting himself in such a way and it hardened his resolve not to dance.

The music was reaching a climax. Dwarrow and dams formed a tight ring around the dance floor, either clapping or stomping along with the drums, heightening the excitement that hummed in the air. Smiling faces twirled in and out of focus, but one remained constant. A brown-haired, rosy cheeked, smiling dam in a red dress with whom he was fascinated.

Thorín could not bear to look away and, at times, he thought she was looking back. Each time their eyes met, his heart would flutter like a caged bird, though he was sure there was no outward appearance of it. He kept his hand in front of his mouth to cover any slips of expression, his relaxed posture suggesting he was watching out of boredom. At least, that was what he hoped.

Then, the song was done. It ended with loud cheers, but Thorín only joined with half-hearted applause. Dread built in the pit of his stomach as he watched the dancers disperse, pairs and couples moving in to replace them. The next song began and revelries continued, but for Thorín, time slowed to a crawl.

Frerín, stretching as he stood from his seat, smiled widely at Thorín's apprehension. Frerín was the only dwarf who knew him well enough to see through the calm demeanor to the nervous tension beneath. In fact, Frerín seemed to thrive on it. At least he was in a better mood, even if it was at Thorín's expense.

He thumped Thorín on the shoulder, asking without remorse, "Where do you think the line will form?"

Thorín shrugged him off with an annoyed grunt, wandering as far away from the commotion as he could. He knew he would be wrangled into standing before the noble families parading past their unwed daughters, not even keeping up the illusion they weren't presenting them for the Prince. It irritated him that Frerín was never forced to endure such objectification but, then again, Frerín probably had his own line forming somewhere else in the hall.

That thought irritated him, too.

He was about to slip away when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Thraín gave him a disapproving look. "And just where do ye think yer goin'?"

Thorín must have seemed like a trapped animal; his father sensing he would run given provocation. Thraín wrapped his meaty arm around Thorín's shoulders and began to steer him toward the King's seat, all the while saying, "Don't think for a minute yer getting out of this. It's a time honored tradition to humiliate yer son in front of the entire kingdom!"

Thorín rolled his eyes and trudged along, tolerating his father's humor because the opportunity came around so little. He did add, "I think you mean 'time honored torture'."

His father laughed, loud and honestly, to which Thorín smiled begrudgingly. As he looked around, he saw Frerín behind them, glaring from the background. The blonde prince spun, marching off in his own little storm, and Thorín found it difficult to feel sorry for him. Perhaps he would later, but right now he had a procession to bluff his way through.

Hours. It had to have been hours that he stood there, nodding and bowing and grimacing at the never-ending parade of nobility. The parents simpered and groveled, hoping to gain some favor with either the King or the Prince. The maidens curtsied and blushed, batting their eyelashes at him and toying with their copious amounts of jewels. There were few he could even consider attractive. One had the bulbous nose of a troll, another teeth like a witch. He had never thought he would completely dismiss someone on the basis of such shallow details, but it was not helped by the fact that each was a spoiled, selfish brat.

The most memorable was Birâ, daughter of the illustrious Barthic Greyrock, Head Master of the Mason's Guild. Unfortunately for her, Birâ was everything that Thorín hated about privilege and politics. She struck him as the kind of noble that smiled at your face as they picked your pocket. Barthic was an honest dwarrow, stern and hard-working. It was his wife, Olosta, that Thorín felt was a two-faced snake.

He had met the family on previous occasions, watching as Birâ grew older and more beautiful with each meeting. There was no doubt that her features were pleasing, but they seemed a thin veil over the oily personality beneath. Thorín could not find it in himself to trust her, or her mother who spoke for her daughter at every breath.

Birâ herself had said little more than pleasantries to him over the years but, at least once per exchange, had managed to imply her willingness to court him. It was not this in whole that made him distrust her, only that her subtle maneuvering that made it difficult to try. There were other small things that irritated his sensibility but they were mostly due to her mother's simpering and often outrageous behavior, which the daughter had no reaction to. As the trio approached the throne, Thorín did his best to ignore their previous interactions and try to view this with an unbiased mind. It became increasingly difficult, the nearer they came.

Barthic greeted the king with praise to both the kingdom and the Princess Dís. The dwarf sounded genuine when he said it, smiling widely when Thraín grasped forearms with him in familiarity. Barthic nodded slowly to Thorín, acknowledging him with respect without making further comment and Thorín did the same. What he knew of the older dwarrow was limited but positive in nature, making Thorín feel neutral toward him at least.

Barthic then gestured to his wife and daughter, introducing them to the King anew. Birâ dipped gracefully, her golden dress a glimmering artwork in the light of a thousand candles. Her jet black hair was braided and pinned to cascade over her bared shoulders, which were more exposed than even the most daring dams. Small diamonds glittered in her hair, her eyes lowered in proper humility. As she rose she gazed heatedly at Thorín and it took everything in him not to sneer in distaste.

Olosta was aging and not as graceful as she once was but she managed to curtsy with a painted smile for her King. She began speaking before she had even finished.

"Your highness is looking as hearty and hale as ever! I had heard you are as youthful as a dwarrow half your age!" She had so much color on her lips that they seemed to move separately from her cheeks, her yellowing teeth in stark contrast to her powder-white skin.

Thror smiled and thanked her, dismissing her almost immediately with a brief wave of his hand, "And you have met my grandson, Prince Thorín."

Their eyes turned on him and Thorín forced himself to bow again to the noble ladies, steeling himself for an uncomfortable conversation.

Birâ began with the usual niceties, "My Prince, you also are looking well."

"As do you, Lady Birâ." That was as far as Thorín was willing to continue that line of conversation.

Birâ must have sensed it because she changed tactics, "You must be so proud of the little Princess. Has it been eighteen years already? Time has flown!"

"Indeed. She has grown like mountain flower, both tenacious and beautiful." Thorín could not help the fondness in his voice and regretted it for the soft look that came over her.

"Of course, My Prince. They are qualities one would look for in a sister."

Thorín's nearly pleasant expression fell from his face. This was precisely the reason he disliked speaking with her, the conniving intentions of her comment making the skin on his neck crawl. Simply, he said, "Yes."

"It would seem you have not been able to dance yet tonight, Prince Thorín." Birâ said sweetly, her voice dulcet and endearing to make up for his darkening mood, "Perhaps you are looking for a suitable partner?"

Thorín declined the implied offer as politely as he could muster, "With my apologies, Lady Birâ, I do not dance."

Birâ parted her lips to make some reply but was interrupted by her mother's interjection, "How dreadful, Lord Prince! I would have thought you would have had lessons by now!"

Thorín swallowed his anger, his nostrils flared in the effort of remaining silent. The wretched woman, continued, wrapping an arm around around her beloved offspring, "My Birâ is a wonderful dancer! One dance with her would have you waltzing in no time!"

"Perhaps it would please you to know that I _did _have lessons, Lady Olosta." Thorín had not intended to sound so harsh but he did not stop himself, "I do not dance because I do not wish to."

He excused himself, then, uncaring of the look his grandfather gave him or the effort his father made to call him back. He edged around the shocked Olosta, her face a perfect 'o' of horror, and strode toward the farthest ale table he could find.

It took some time to escape the guards that had been sent after him but he managed to slip from their sight and make his way to the ale kegs in the back of the hall. Here it was very busy, hundreds of drinking dwarrow bustling back and forth from the giant wooden barrels to fill mugs for delivery. Long tables had been placed in front of them to block the masses from accessing them and nearly fifty alemasters were occupied in filling empty vessels, handing them back to their owners over the damp bar before taking the next.

Thorín knew Dwalin and Tormûnd would be hovering in the general area, avoiding the dance as much as he, but for different reasons. Tormûnd did not have a lack of partners but taking part would leave Dwalin alone, so they both stood next to the ale and drank themselves happy. Thorín finally hunted them down and found a great relief in joining his friends for a pint.

Thorín said nothing of his experience and the two warriors had no interest in asking. Thorín was usually in a foul mood after dealing with nobles so, instead of discussing it, they drank three full mugs each before speaking. That was the basis of their friendship.

"Durin's balls," Thorín murmured as he drained the last of his ale. Tormûnd belched in agreement.

Dwalin wiped the foam from his mouth, "Havin' loads of fun then, eh?"

Thorín rolled his eyes as an answer and Dwalin snorted. They watched the dancing from a good distance for a short time until several dams grouped together to whisper about the three of them before disappearing, which was beginning to happen more often the longer they stood there.

"What are those nagglers chittering about?" Dwalin grumbled into his cup.

"They want to ask us to dance but ye scare the piss right out of them."

Tormûnd had stated it so casually it took Thorín a moment to realize what he had said. After his short bark of laughter inspired the same out of Tormûnd, Dwalin scowled and left to get more ale.

Without warning, Tormund stopped laughing, a sour look coming over him, "Cursed stone, what're ye doin' here, water wench?"

Thorín turned to see to whom he spoke, coming face to face with a determined looking dam. She stood almost a head shorter than he, her curls held back from her face with a leather thong. She wore a work dress covered by a blacksmithing apron, scorch marks marring the tan surface as proof that it was well used. She looked clean, however, as if she had meant to attend the party and not that she had come straight from a forge.

She spared Tormund a cool look and arched an eyebrow at him before turning her eyes to Thorín. Short as she was, she had an intimidating air about her that he did not sense from dams all that often. When Dís became angry she could be just as intimidating, but this dam was calm and collected. He waited, allowing her to speak first.

"So. You are Thorín."

Thorín felt his brows furrow. She obviously knew who he was but felt the need to name him anyway. She was looking him over, arms crossed, hip stuck out casually, mouth drawn on one side to show how unimpressive she found the view. Of all the beings he had met in the span of his lifetime, no one had ever approached him so bluntly. Only his close friends respected him enough to treat him as a normal dwarf and not just royalty to be feared. He was bemused, intrigued even, that this dam in blacksmith's clothes would set herself as his equal before even having met him.

Slowly, he nodded, still unsure if she was jesting. "I am. Do you not know your Prince?"

Her eyebrow went up again, "Oh, I know yer a Prince." She flicked her eyes over him again, "You look average to me."

Unsure what to say, Thorín looked to Tormund, who was looking anywhere but at them. Thorín asked him, "Do you know her?"

Tormund feigned surprise, "Who, me? Ne'er! I dannae associate with _witches_."

Thorín was surprised to find that the dam could be even less impressed with something. She very mildly stuck out her tongue at the warrior, rolling her eyes when he made a gesture to ward off evil.

Before the situation could degrade further, Dwalin returned with a fresh mug of ale for all of them. He tipped his chin in her direction as he passed out the extra drinks, "Who's this, then?"

It was obvious that Tormund was going to ignore the question so the dam stepped forward and extended her arm, "Ymira, daughter of Fjalar."

All three of them were quiet after her introduction, Dwalin only just managing to keep his ale in his mouth. Once he swallowed, Dwalin blurted, "Yer the daughter of Fjalar Hammerhand?!"

One eyebrow lifted lazily and she lowered her extended arm, "That's what I just said."

"Gah! Yer damned witchcraft's made 'im stupider than he already was!" Tormund started to raise his mug to his lips when Dwalin knocked it away in his rush to grasp the front of his vest.

"But this is _Ymira Quicksilver_! Have yeh ne'er heard of her?" Dwalin was more animated than he had been in years, sharp grey eyes sparkling with interest.

Tormund spat next to his feet, shoving Dwalin off of him and drinking his ale with a spiteful glare.

Thorín took the moment to comment, "I was unaware Fjalar had a daughter. I know much of your father's legend, my lady."

"Dannae "my lady" me, Durinson. I am no noble dam to be fawned over." Her intense aura was enough to make Thorín believe her. "You may call me Ymira or you may bite yer tongue."

Thorín said nothing, feigning disapproval to mask his amusement. She was quite the honest dam and that impressed him. Dwalin, in the meantime, had taken a step forward to grasp the forearm she had extended earlier, shaking it firmly in earnest.

"It truly is an honor to meet ye, Dame Ymira." As simple as the statement was, it came as a shock to both Tormund and Thorín that Dwalin was being so forward.

It was no secret that Dwalin did not mingle with the fairer sex but it was not for lack of want. The dwarf was pitifully inept when it came to conversing with females and taking social cues. He was naturally gifted as a warrior, knew all there was to know about weapons and fighting styles, and could speak for days on any subject within that realm of knowledge. When it came to dams, though, he floundered like a fish on stone.

Tormund had begun to scowl, glancing between the dam and warrior as Ymira began to reciprocate his gesture. Ymira still held her apathetic smirk but, now, there was a softness around her eyes. She and Dwalin stared at each other for a beat or two longer before backing away.

Thorín saw something in the interaction and, as interested in this newcomer as he was, he was now more intent on benefiting his friend. "Dwalin, what do you know of _Dame_ Ymira? It appears that I am woefully uninformed."

When he used the title, she looked at him, affronted. Once she realized he had meant it with respect, her gaze flitted back to Dwalin, showing uncertainty for the first time since she had appeared.

"This dam is the finest silversmith in the Dwarven kingdoms." Dwalin was glowing as he spoke. "Balin commissioned a blade for our father last year and she worked with the bladesmiths to forge it with a silver inlay."

Thorín had never seen him like this. Dwalin continued, looking directly at him, "I've ne'er seen it's peer, Thorín. That silver is bonded to the steel like Mahal himself had willed it. Not a nick or scratch after a full year of practice, aye."

Dwalin turned his eyes back to the dam, beaming, "Best damned blade I've ever seen."

This was high praise coming from any dwarf but Thorín was especially impressed with it coming from the mouth of Dwalin. He, who Thorn had never heard compliment even his respected friends, was close to singing this dam's name from the Mountain top.

Again, Thorín looked to Tormûnd for guidance on their friend's behavior or of the strong-willed dam he seemed to already know, but the warrior only stood, glaring green eyes over the rim of his mug at no one. Thorín frowned but before he could act, the dam said something he was sure no one ever had.

"Would you care to dance, Master Dwalin?"

Dwalin seemed ready to answer in the affirmative but Tormûnd interjected, "Ye sure ye can dance in that kitchen apron?"

His barb ruffled not one feather. "Ye sure ye can dance with that fat head?" She replied barely looking at him before turning toward the dance floor with a pointed look at Dwalin.

"Oh, Mahal save me, lads." Dwalin blindly handed his empty cup to Tormûnd by shoving it into the other's chest, "I'm in love."

The mowhawked warrior scampered after her, leaving his two friends silent and staring into the crowd where he had disappeared. Thorín thought to say something on the matter, then changed his mind and addressed Tormûnd, "How do you know her?"

Tormûnd grunted, throwing the unwanted mug off to the side and scowled some more, "Asked 'er to marry me once."

Thorín was speechless.

"Aye, shut yer gob." Tormûnd was more ashamed than upset, Thorín knew from his tone, and his face became redder as he spoke, "Known 'er since we was dwarflings an' she's a right pain in the arse. Thriva's no help either."

Thorín nearly spilled ale down his beard, "You know Thriva?"

"Aye." Tormûnd sounded unhappy about that as well. "She and Dotri bonded as widows. The three of 'em have been a blight on my life for near on fifteen years."

Tormûnd continued to grumble loudly about the trio while Thorín mentally withdrew to fill in the missing pieces of his knowledge. Dotri was Tormûnd's sister by law, mother of the twins Dorvè and Keim that he had been training. Thorín had met her, years before, at the funeral of her husband and she had been like a wilted flower - a being once filled with beauty and joy reduced to a drooping husk, drained of life. He had declined her numerous offers of meals and visits, dearly wishing to avoid the guilt he felt at the sight of her. Even now, thoughts of meeting Dotri had him fighting the despair he hid within him.

From what Tormûnd had told him, Thorín could not help but feel mildly disappointed at the knowledge that Thriva was no virginal maid. He was relieved in the same sense, though, for neither was she a prudish matron. He found, after a moment of consideration, that a previous marriage was of little consequence and mattered much less than he would have thought. A current marriage would have been a worse blow, and he was far more glad it was not the case.

Earlier, when Tormûnd had called her an idiot, it had irked him but he now realized the dwarf spoke from personal experience. Even as Thorín considered, Tormûnd had continued to bemoan his "dam ridden" life and how it lacked a balancing amount of masculinity. Tormûnd did not word it so politely, though.

"Too many lips and not enough balls, if ye ask me." Tormûnd was oblivious to Thorín's lack of empathy to his plight.

Another lively song had begun and the two were drug from their separate reveries when dwarrow began rushing past them to get to the dancefloor. Thorín and Tormûnd began to saunter closer, unconsciously drawn to the activity, until they had found a comfortable place from which to observe. Couples spun gracefully around each other, stepping quickly to the music despite the little room left for maneuvering.

At first, Thorín was able to enjoy just watching, drinking in the happiness around him as easily as the ale in his hand. Soon enough, though, the sight of so many pairs of dwarves drifting past him created a slow burning jealousy in him that he had not felt before. He tapped his foot to the drum beat and felt his body move minutely with the melody but his eyes were keenly focused on the faces of the dancers as they moved.

He expected her to pass by at any moment, smiling and laughing in the arms of another dwarf. He felt his mood darken more and more the longer he stared, wondering why it was that he remained alone when there was so much opportunity to enjoy himself. He was beginning to curse himself when he noticed Tormûnd eyeing him with a mixture of worry and annoyance. Thorín had no need to ask the warrior what he was thinking, for Tormûnd did not wait for the inquiry.

"Ye could just ask someone ta' dance, ye twit."

Thorín would have found it amusing if it had not struck the heart of his issue.

He brushed off his dark thoughts and raised his eyebrow. "Is that an invitation, flower?"

Tormûnd's face fell into a scowl so severe it was comical and Thorín was laughing even before his flame-haired friend could reply. "Over my cold corpse, Durinson."

After a brief moment to catch his breath, and perhaps to glare a little longer, Tormûnd pointed across the hall with his mug, "Only reason I mentioned it…"

Thorín's grin faded as he followed the direction he was given, all humor lost the instant he spotted Frerín holding his hands out to a dam in a red dress. It was that sight that broke his resistance to his emotions and the jealousy he had been holding at bay consumed him.

He no longer heard the music, he no longer see the crush of bodies around him; he could only hear his blood pounding in his ears and could only see through a tunnel that opened on his brother asking the weaver to dance. Heat boiled up through his guts into his chest, pushing up the back of his neck into the base of his skull. Thorín felt a storm coming.

Tormûnd, having watched his reaction, cleared his throat and looked smugly into his drink, "Looks like yer brother's askin'er ta dance."

Thorín scowled, his fist clenching of its own accord. He felt an elbow in his ribs just before Tormûnd stated, "Might want ta do som'in about it."

Thorín was four steps from his brother before he realized what he was doing, but even knowing, he did not stop. At full storm he roughly shoved his brother with one hand, knocking him head first into a nearby group of elderly dams. Over the sound of their shocked squeals and admonitions, he asked, "Lady Thriva, would you dance with me?"

She looked at his face, then at the sight of his brother untangling himself from a pile of elderly dams, and back to the hand he was holding out to her. Out of initial shock, her hands were clasped to her chest, the amusement she was fighting making her eyes sparkle. She met his gaze, determined, fierce and daring, extending her hand towards him as slowly as the grin that crept onto her lips. "Absolutely."

Thorín had not danced in years, possibly decades, but his feet remembered it as if he had been doing so the entire time. He spun the two of them into it without concentrating on the steps, without worrying who surrounded them. He remained completely unaware of their surroundings, or the music or the joyous noise, because he could not look away from her.

Her cheeks were flushed, a dimple in each one as she beamed from his arms. She was short of breath, even as she grinned, bouncing with each step as they made their rounds. He tried to memorize every detail of her face, the wrinkles around her eyes, the swoop of her neck, the dampness at her hairline that had begun to curl the small hairs that escaped her strict styling. She was beautiful.

Time may have passed but Thorín took no note of it. The music stopped and started, the tune changing from one song to another, but he took no notice of that, either. She was happy. She was laughing and smiling and held him the same way he held her. There were no other concerns than that. He may have even been smiling himself.


End file.
